Submerged Abyss

"talking"

'thinking'

[System]

{ Author Note }

Sitting idly, consumed by everything I don't understand, isn't get me anywhere. I'm already in a new world—whatever this is—and I'm not about to let fear or uncertainty keep me from figuring it out. If I'm going to make sense of this, I need to start moving.

I begin to swim slowly, my fins slicing through the water with a rhythmic motion as I aim toward one of the many underwater islands scattered across this expansive ocean. Each stroke feels instinctive, my body adapting naturally to its environment even though my mind is still catching up to the reality of my situation. 

The islands loom in the distance, their dark, rocky silhouettes framed by the eerie glow of the surrounding waters. I focus on the closest one, hoping it might give me some direction or a clue about where I've ended up. 

My thoughts race as I try to piece together my surroundings. Even at a glance, the biome feels much larger and more immersive than it ever did in the game. The sheer scale of everything is almost overwhelming, making me feel small despite the power of my new body.

The water shifts around me, currents tugging gently at my sides, and I instinctively adjust, finding a rhythm that lets me glide more efficiently through the open expanse. Each island seems more imposing the closer I get, their sharp edges hinting at caves, crevices, and who knows what else. I steel myself, knowing that this isn't just a game anymore. To survive, I must learn fast; this island might be the first step.

"Alright, now that I've got at least a basic understanding of this... system, or whatever it is, I need to figure out how to handle this body," I think, repeating the thought in my mind like a mantra to keep myself focused. My gaze drops downward, watching my fins and tail's slow, fluid undulations as they slice through the water. 

Each movement feels foreign but strangely intuitive, as if my body knows what to do even if my mind hasn't caught up. "Especially since everything I eat seems to be changing me—if the Garryfish was anything to go by," I add, the memory of the transformation still fresh and unsettling.

The realization sends a shiver through me, or at least the aquatic equivalent of one. The thought of my body constantly adapting, evolving with every meal—it's fascinating in a way, but it also feels like I'm losing control of myself piece by piece. My chest tightens at the idea, but I exhale slowly, bubbles floating lazily to the surface above. 

"One thing at a time," I mutter in my head, grounding myself in the present. Worrying about the future isn't going to help me survive right now. As I approach, I find myself drifting closer to the underwater island, the rocky terrain coming into sharper focus. Jagged spikes protrude from its surface, their rough edges inviting strangely. I glide past one without much conscious thought, brushing against it lightly. 

The sensation is dull but noticeable—just enough to remind me of the solidity of my new body. Encouraged, I circle back and swim through a cluster of spikes, weaving between them in a slow, deliberate pattern. The act feels oddly soothing, almost meditative. My body adjusts independently, my fins instinctively tilting to avoid collisions while my tail sweeps in precise, measured arcs. 

I focus on the movements, letting my muscles memorize the angles and resistance of the water. Each pass feels smoother and slightly more natural than the last. "Muscle memory," I think, a tiny spark of satisfaction flickering to life as I notice the improvement. My body is learning and adapting, even as my mind struggles to keep up. 

The way my fins shift automatically to counter the currents, how my tail provides just the right amount of propulsion—I can feel it all clicking into place, one minor adjustment at a time. It's not much, but it's progress. And right now, progress is enough.

"Alright, let's keep doing this while we figure out the next step," I think, forcing myself to focus despite the cascade of questions spinning in my head. My body, still unfamiliar and strange, moves almost on autopilot now, weaving through the jagged spikes with a fluidity I didn't have moments ago. 

Each twist and flick of my tail feels smoother and more intentional, as if the muscles are starting to remember their purpose. The awkwardness of being in this alien form is fading, replaced by something that feels... natural. It's not entirely comfortable yet, but it's natural.

I glide past another jagged outcrop, letting my fins skim the cool water as my thoughts drift. "Okay, think," I tell myself. "What's different here? What could this world—this real version of the game—have that I wasn't prepared for?" The enormity of that question makes my chest tighten slightly, but I force myself to take it piece by piece, breaking it down like a puzzle.

"First off," I reason, "there's definitely going to be more creatures. That makes sense, right? The game only had so much room to show stuff. Here... this is an actual ecosystem. Or at least, it feels like one." 

My mind flashes to the leviathans from the game, those massive, nightmare-inducing monsters. The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine. The idea of something even more prominent than those roaming these waters is enough to make me falter for a second. 

"Yeah, probably more leviathans," I mutter, trying to shake the image. "That's just... awesome. Totally what I needed." Sarcasm doesn't help much, but it keeps the rising anxiety in check.

"And not just big stuff," I continue, dodging another spike as my tail swishes reflexively, almost like it knows what to do before I do. "There's got to be more minor stuff too. Not just the Peepers and Bladderfish—the stuff you'd barely notice in the game. Tiny fish, weird little invertebrates, maybe even things that weren't programmed. 

This place feels too alive not to have its own surprises." The thought makes my stomach twist. Exciting, sure—but also terrifying. New creatures mean new challenges, and I have no idea how many of them could see me as lunch.

The tension builds for a moment, but I push it down, redirecting my focus to the steady rhythm of my swimming. My movements are almost automatic now, the spikes becoming less like obstacles and more like markers in a training course.

Each pass through the jagged terrain feels more precise as if I'm fine-tuning the controls of a machine I'm learning to pilot. The water presses against me with its familiar resistance, and for the first time, I don't fight it. Instead, I move with it, letting it guide me. "Alright," I think, this time with more determination. 

"Expect surprises. Be ready for anything." The open ocean stretches beyond me, vast and unknown, and I know that whatever challenges lie ahead won't be found here in the safety of this little island's spikes. 

I take one last pass through them, feeling my body adapt and settle into the rhythm. For now, these spikes have been my practice ground. But out there? Out there is where the real test begins.

"Alright," I mutter, the sound barely audible in the watery stillness around me. I try to shake off the image that's taken root—leviathans are more enormous than the Sea Emperor. Just the thought makes my skin, or whatever this body has instead of skin, crawl. "Great job, brain. Just fantastic. Let's file that nightmare away for later."

I take a steadying breath—or at least mimic the motion out of habit. Breathing underwater feels strange, even though I don't need to think about it. Shifting my focus, I give my tail a deliberate flick. The fluid, sweeping motion feels smoother than it did hours ago, as though my body has finally synced with my instincts.

The jagged spikes on the seabed have been a surprisingly good training ground. While I wouldn't call myself graceful, I can at least navigate now without feeling like a clumsy tourist fumbling with rented scuba gear. 

I've got the basics down. No more crashing into rocks or flailing aimlessly—well, hopefully. My gaze lifts, and the vast, open expanse of water comes into view. It's beautiful, sure, but it's also... unnerving. 

The way the light shifts and dances across the ocean floor, the distant shadows that ripple and stretch—it all feels too alive. No matter how small, every movement has my mind jumping to worst-case scenarios. 

Something's hiding, I think, my imagination running wild. Something big. Something with teeth. I shake my head, trying to push the paranoia aside. "Staying here forever isn't an option," I tell myself, the words firm but not exactly convincing. Clinging to the safety of the spikes might feel tempting, but it won't help me understand this place—or survive in it. The only way forward is... well, forward.

"Okay," I say internally, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "One step at a time. Let's start with this biome—see what's here and get the lay of the land. Or the water, I guess." The plan feels manageable, a way to take control in a world where I barely understand the rules.

As I look back at the familiar cluster of spikes, my fins twitch with anticipation. They've been a good fallback, but it's time to leave them behind. 

With a firm flick of my tail, I propel myself forward, feeling the water rush past as my fins instinctively adjust to the subtle current shifts. It's strange, this newfound sense—like a sixth sense designed purely for navigating water. 

The currents guide me, flowing around me and making moving through the biome almost effortless. For a moment, I revel in how natural it feels, the thrill of speed and ease cutting through my lingering unease.

But that fleeting sense of control is short-lived. I start to notice that the current I'm riding isn't just helping me move faster—it's steering me. The water pulls me steadily toward the edge of the biome, and as I glance down, my stomach twists. 

Below me lies the dark maw of the pit where the Floating Islands hover, suspended in their eerie, weightless glory. The descent is gradual but inescapable, and the closer I get, the more oppressive the darkness at the bottom seems. And then I see it.

My gaze locks onto a massive creature lurking near the base of the islands, and my blood—or whatever's coursing through me now—runs cold. At first glance, it looks like a Boneshark, but only if a Boneshark had been juiced up to nightmarish proportions. This thing is enormous, easily the size of a Reaper Leviathan, if not more significant. 

Its form is hulking and predatory, every inch radiating raw, primal menace. My eyes trace its features, trying to process what I'm seeing. Two sets of eyes gleam with an unnatural intelligence, scanning its surroundings with an eerie precision. Its sleek and powerful tail fin dwarfed mine, slicing through the water like a blade. Every movement it makes is deliberate, calculated, and terrifyingly graceful.

And it's not alone. Swarming around it is a pack of regular Bonesharks, their smaller forms darting and circling like dutiful, if uneasy, followers. The contrast is stark—this giant creature looks like the alpha, and they know it. The air—or rather, the water—feels thick with tension as they trail behind it, keeping just close enough to seem obedient but far enough to avoid provoking it.

Then, in an instant, the dynamic changes. The massive creature snaps its head sharply to the side, jaws parting with terrifying speed. Before I can fully register what's happening, one of the Bonesharks is caught in its massive teeth. 

The smaller creature doesn't even have time to react. With a brutal crunch, the alpha devours it casually as if snapping a snack. The water clouds briefly with blood, but the giant doesn't seem to care.

I freeze, my body instinctively tensing as a cold shiver runs down my spine. This isn't just a bigger version of a Boneshark. This is something else entirely—a predator at the top of its food chain and a reminder that I am far from the top of mine.

"I need to keep away from that," I think, a cold wave of primal dread washing over me as I replay the horrifying sight in my head. The monstrous creature's jaws closing on one of its own kin was nothing short of brutal—a merciless act that seemed less about survival and more about dominance. 

I can almost feel the deep, bone-rattling vibrations from its bite resonating through the water. My instincts flare to life, primal and uncompromising: move before it notices you. Before it decides you're following. A rush of panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I force it down. Now isn't the time for freezing up. Survival comes first—everything else is secondary. 

I feel the faint pull of a current nearby, its gentle upward flow tugging at my fins. It's leading back toward the surface, toward where I started. It's not perfect, but it's a direction, and right now, I need any edge I can get.

Without hesitation, I angle my body into the current, aligning myself with the invisible flow of water. My tail whips into motion, the assertive flicks sharp and deliberate as I let the current carry me, my movements working in sync with its pull. 

Each push feels like a desperate bid for distance, every flick of my tail echoing my urgency. The water rushes past me, the world around me blurring slightly as I focus entirely on speed, escape, and survival.

Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes. My muscles burn, my body adjusting automatically to the current's subtle shifts and eddies. The upward pull grows more potent, lifting me from the abyss below. 

I can feel the water thinning slightly, the pressure easing as I climb higher, but I don't let myself relax. Not yet. A predator like that wouldn't need long to catch me if it decided to hunt.

I don't dare look back. My every instinct screams to keep moving, trust the current, and push through the ache in my tail. Whatever that thing is, it's a nightmare pulled straight from the darkest depths of this ocean—and I have no intention of letting it get any closer.

"Okay, well, I now have a mark I need to hit if I want to survive in this place," I think solemnly, my gaze drifting over the vast, endless expanse of water surrounding me. The ocean feels immense and isolating, a giant abyss that could swallow me whole if I let it. 

The memory of that thing—the monstrous predator lurking below—is still vivid, its horrific size and brutal attack flashing through my mind like a nightmare I can't shake. But for now, I've managed to put some distance between us. At least for the moment, the danger feels distant. But the quiet... it's almost too quiet. 

The weight of it presses in on me. There's no telling what could be waiting beneath the surface, but the waters around me seem to hum with an eerie stillness. I shift my attention, scanning the area more carefully. Sudden, darting movements break the emptiness. 

My eyes lock onto several schools of fish weaving in and out of the coral and rocky outcrops—Peepers, and beyond them, a group of Hoopfish gliding with smooth, synchronized motion. 

Their movements are erratic, almost playful. They move in tight formations, making them easy targets. My stomach clenches—not with hunger but with a sharp, unmistakable realization: I need to eat.

Not just because I'm hungry but because I have to keep growing and evolving. The Garryfish that I absorbed before—it wasn't just food. It was a transformation, a chance to gain more power, to adapt. 

And if I want to keep up and survive in this unforgiving world, I can't afford to hesitate. Every creature I encounter, whether small or insignificant, is an opportunity to get stronger and closer to whatever will help me thrive here.

I turn my focus to the Peepers first. Their bright, iridescent bodies flash in the sunlight filtering through the water, and their frantic movements mesmerize yet instinctively make me tense. 

They swim in tight, unpredictable bursts, their silver scales shimmering with each direction change. I can feel my pulse quicken with the thrill of the hunt. It's food, I remind myself. Survival first. I push forward, adjusting my body's movements in sync with the water, my tail giving a steady, controlled flick to propel me closer. 

Each pass is smoother and more fluid now. The muscle memory from my earlier training with the spikes takes over, guiding my movements without thought. The Peepers sense me, their small, darting bodies snapping into action as they scatter in every direction. My instincts scream at me to give chase. I can't waste time. 

I need to be quicker. I focus on one in particular—a slightly slower one, trailing behind the rest. It's almost like the others are pulling away from it, leaving it vulnerable. Perfect, the excitement of the chase bubbling inside me. I accelerate, precisely pushing my tail, closing the gap with each stroke. 

I feel the water around me shift, the current responding to my movements as my body adjusts seamlessly. "Come on, let's see if I can catch you," I murmur mentally; the challenge is now a game I'm eager to win.

I move faster, and my speed is now a natural extension of my body. My fins easily cut through the water, my tail thrashing powerfully behind me. The Peepers' frantic motions aren't enough to escape me—every flick of my tail is more confident than the last, and soon, the gap between us is razor-thin.

"Everything's food," I remind myself, the mantra pushing me forward. Each bite and meal is a step closer to mastering this new body and world. The idea of hunger feels distant now; I don't just need food—I need to keep evolving to survive.

As I close in on the Peepers, the final burst of my movement pushes me forward with force. I strike, and the speed and precision of the moment are almost perfect. The sensation of the fish's carapace brushing past my teeth is immediate, the taste of success sharp and exhilarating.

"I need more than just this," I think, my thoughts sharp and focused as I tear through the Peeper's soft flesh, the taste of its blood rushing down my throat like a dark wave. It's a strange kind of comfort, familiar somehow—like it's been this way. The sensation is the same as when I ate the Garryfish: a soothing, primal rush that makes my body feel alive, as if the very act of consuming is changing me, filling the spaces inside that were once empty.

The taste lingers briefly on my tongue—salty, sharp, and metallic—before the shredded meat and bones slide down smoothly, swallowed whole as though my body instinctively absorbs everything it can. 

It's not just food—it's fuel. Each part of the Peeper becomes part of me, flowing into my System, and I can feel it. The muscles in my body hum with energy as the nutrients sink deeper, providing more strength, awareness, and power. 

The bones are rigid but yield to my jaws easily, adding a satisfying crunch that fills me with something I can't name, a raw instinct that pushes me to keep going. The blood feels almost like a promise, like I'm tapping into something old, something ancient.

I can feel my body's rhythm shifting as I continue, the once-foreign swimming movements becoming more natural. It's like my cells are remembering what they were always meant to do. 

This is survival, pure and simple—survival that demands more. The hunger gnaws at me, not for food, but for power, for evolution. It's as if each bite makes me stronger, and I can already feel the change. This isn't just a meal. This is a step in the right direction, a moment of growth. The weight of that realization presses down on me—there's urgency behind every movement, every meal. This is my first and last chance to build what I need to survive. 

If I don't keep moving, keep feeding, I won't last long in this place. The ocean is vast, unpredictable, and filled with creatures far worse than this Peeper. They don't care how hungry I am. They don't care if I've eaten at all. The world doesn't wait, and neither can I.

[DNA Absorption]

Peeper

Choose One Possible Trait:

Pupolsion Tubes: This trait allows for connecting six specialized tubes to the lungs, each designed to expel air in quick, powerful bursts. These tubes are finely attuned to release compressed air, providing an explosive surge of speed whenever needed.

However, the benefit of this speed comes with a heavy drawback. Because the air is expelled so rapidly, it's impossible to fully filter or purify it before it exits the body. As a result, the gas that rushes out can be full of impurities—unfiltered, stale, or even harmful particles—making it a risky move to rely on too frequently.

Peeper Beak: This trait transforms the mouth into a robust, bird-like beak reinforced with incredible strength and durability. The beak's curved, pointed structure is designed to exert significant pressure, allowing the creature to bite through tough vegetation and dense coral structures effortlessly.

However, the beak's strength requires maintenance; regular wear and tear from constant use against rigid materials can dull its sharp edges over time.

N/A

"So, these are my two options," I think, my gaze darting back and forth between the descriptions as my brain scrambles to process the details. Each trait offers something unique, but each comes with risks. 

My chest tightens with the weight of the decision—this isn't just about preference; it's about survival. The first trait is intriguing, offering a boost of speed when I might need it most. The downside? That unfiltered gas issue. 

It's a gamble, sure, but one that feels manageable. The second option—the Peeper Beak—is a different story. The idea of replacing my teeth with a bird-like beak? It's hard to ignore the raw strength it would bring, but the trade-off is glaring. I'd be giving up versatility for something overly specialized, and in a world where adaptability is everything, that feels like a mistake waiting to happen.

A beak might let me tear through tough vegetation or coral, but what happens when I need precision? Or when I come across prey that requires finesse instead of brute force? The more I think about it, the more the cons pile up. Losing my teeth for a situational feature feels like tying my hands behind my back.

I exhale slowly, trying to push the tension out of my body. "Alright," I murmur internally, the decision suddenly clear. "Sorry, Peeper Beak, but you're not it. I need options, not limitations."

I focus my thoughts and mentally select the Propulsion Tubes. I almost instantly feel the now-familiar sensation—a sharp, stinging warmth spreading through my body. But this time, it isn't confined to one area; the burn radiates across several different spots, each pulse of heat like a tiny flame ignited under my skin.

I grit my teeth, pushing through the discomfort as the changes begin. It's subtle at first—a faint pressure beneath my flesh, like something making its way to the surface. Then, it becomes unmistakable. I can feel the formation of new structures and the growing presence of six distinct points along my body.

The first pair of tubes emerge near the central part of my body, just below my pectoral fins. The sensation is strange—like muscles I didn't know I had are being restructured, repurposed for something entirely new. 

A second pair forms farther down, near the base of my tail fin, the heat and pressure spreading like a ripple through my nerves. Finally, the last pair begins to grow near where my anal fin would be, completing the symmetrical design.

Each tube feels alien, yet oddly natural, as though they've always been a part of me. I can almost sense their function instinctively, as they're primed to channel bursts of air or gas for quick propulsion. 

The burning sensation fades, replaced by a dull thrum of energy coursing through my modified body. I can already tell these tubes will be a game-changer for navigating the ocean, especially when speed or maneuverability becomes a matter of survival.

As the process finishes, I flick my tail experimentally, feeling the subtle shifts in balance as the tubes settle into place. "Alright," I think, the faint ache of transformation ebbing away. "Let's see what these can really do."

I pause momentarily, letting the changes settle before taking a deep breath—or whatever the underwater equivalent is for someone in my current state. My body feels different and more streamlined, and I can sense the presence of the newly grown tubes, like dormant engines waiting to be activated. Curiosity and anticipation swirl in my mind as I focus, flexing the strange, unfamiliar muscles around the tubes.

The response is immediate and far more potent than I expected. A sudden, explosive burst of propulsion shoots me forward like a torpedo, the force so intense it feels like I've been launched rather than swimming.

The water rushes past me in a blur, the world becoming a chaotic mix of motion and muted colors. My tail fin remains entirely still, rendered almost unnecessary by the sheer velocity generated by the tubes.

I barely have time to process the sensation before a massive shadow looms ahead—a floating island. My eyes widen in panic, and I scramble to adjust my trajectory, twisting my body at the last possible second. 

The sharp edge of the island flashes past me, so close I feel the faint drag of water rippling off its surface. I dodge it by what must be less than an inch, my heart pounding in my chest—or whatever I have now that passes for one.

The adrenaline rush is almost as intense as the propulsion itself, leaving me both exhilarated and shaken. As I slow to a more manageable pace, I glance back at the island, its jagged underside fading into the blue behind me.

"Okay," I think, trying to calm my racing thoughts. "That was... more than I was ready for." My muscles tremble slightly from the unfamiliar exertion, but I can't help the faint smile tugging at the edge of my mind. This new ability is more powerful than I imagined and could make all the difference with some practice.

"This might just be the most useful thing I'll ever get," I think, the weight of the realization sinking in as I force myself to steady my breathing—or whatever the underwater equivalent of that is. 

The adrenaline from that sudden burst of speed still lingers, my muscles tingling with excitement and caution. "But maybe I should stick to short bursts instead of full-on launches like that." 

My eyes dart back to the floating island I'd barely avoided, the jagged underside looming in my memory like a warning. "Short bursts would give me better control... and help avoid inhaling unfiltered gas. That one con could really mess me up if I'm careless."

I shift my attention back to my surroundings, the vast expanse of water around me shimmering with life. The floating islands rise above, their enormous bases covered in vibrant coral and hanging vegetation. 

Their shadows dance across the seabed far below, creating an eerie, shifting patchwork of light and dark. I feel like I'm in a completely different place, even though I know I haven't traveled that far.

A flicker of movement draws my eyes to a school of fish gliding nearby. Their scales reflect flashes of blue and silver as they dart and weave in perfect unison. For a moment, I almost relax, watching the natural rhythm of the ocean. But then, something more menacing catches my attention—a pack of Bonesharks circling just beyond the edge of visibility.

Their sleek, muscular bodies cut through the water like living torpedoes, their movements purposeful and predatory. The way they circle, their sharp fins slicing through the blue, sends a shiver down my spine. 

They're hunting, and the efficiency in their motions makes it clear they're good at it. The primal fear of being hunted stirs in my chest, but I shove it down. I can't afford to let it take over. "Alright," I think, tearing my gaze away from the Bonesharks before they notice me staring.

 My fins twitch instinctively, ready to move at the first sign of trouble. "Focus. Figure out where you are, what's around you, and what comes next." I take another look at the shimmering waters ahead of me. Wait... The thought suddenly strikes me like a puzzle piece snapping into place. If the Bonesharks are hunting together, it means they're pack hunters. 

My mind shifts into overdrive, connecting the dots as quickly as possible. And if that's true, staying near them might keep me safe. Predators don't usually attack their own pack—or something that looks like it belongs. They might not see me as a threat or prey if I stick close enough.

My gaze shifts back to the Bonesharks, their streamlined bodies gliding effortlessly through the water in perfect synchronization. Their coordinated movements, so calculated and deliberate, speak to a deadly efficiency. It's intimidating, sure—but also strangely reassuring. Yeah, I think my nerves steadied slightly. 

But the image of that monster Boneshark rises unbidden in my mind, as vivid as if it were still right before me. The massive, grotesque creature, far more extensive than any of the pack members here, with jaws that could snap me in half without hesitation. 

My newfound comfort wavers, a cold reminder settling over me. Of course... this only works if I avoid going near that thing. Whatever it is, it's in a league of its own, and I don't plan on testing my luck.

I flick my fins lightly, steadying myself in the water as I watch the pack circle, their sharp eyes scanning for prey. Every movement they make is purposeful and efficient, and for a moment, I can almost see the beauty in their deadly precision.

A small wave of optimism washes over me, and I begin to think more strategically. I could join one of their packs if I need to. Or better yet, if I spot something that seems like it'd be easier to take down as a group—something that'd be a hell of a lot tougher alone—well, I've got backup now. I've got a safety net, in a sense.

I watch the Bonesharks moving fluidly through the water, each working in sync. Instead of seeing them as vicious predators, my mind shifts, and I view them differently. They're not just the low-ranking members of some terrifying species. No, they're survivors, just like me—operating in a system that works because they hunt together, and every movement is a part of that collective goal. Yeah... I think to myself, a hint of relief creeping in. 

Maybe they're not just mindless, bloodthirsty creatures. They've got rhythm. They've got a purpose. They know what they're doing, and if I'm careful, maybe I can fit into that rhythm too.

A quiet sense of calm spreads through me, pushing the tension out of my muscles. I feel a little more secure now, a little more hopeful. Being part of something, even temporarily or tagging along, brings a strange sense of comfort. 

I've got options now, I remind myself, the weight of it sinking in. I don't have to fight this world alone. This could actually work. The thought resonates, and for the first time in a while, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I might survive this. Okay, enough getting distracted by the future use of my "siblings," I think, mentally snapping myself out of my internal musings. Focus. You've got more immediate priorities to handle. 

My eyes return to the water, narrowing as they fall on the school of fish the Bonesharks are circling. The sleek bodies of the fish darting through the water set my stomach rumbling. They're fast, their movements quick and fluid—but what catches my attention more than their speed is that they're Hoopfish. I haven't eaten one of those yet, I realize. 

This could be good. My mind works quickly, evaluating the potential benefits. They're smaller than the Garryfish but seem more agile—perhaps more complicated to catch, but nothing I can't manage. Yeah, this could be useful. 

The Bonesharks are still hunting them in tight, coordinated movements, weaving through the water with deadly precision. I can't afford to wait too long; I don't know if the Bonesharks will leave any for me if I'm not quick. Focus, I remind myself. You've got this.

I feel my muscles flex, the rhythm of the water becoming second nature. The current's steady pull against me is comforting and challenging as I prepare to move. My tail twitches, and I can already sense the fluidity of my next move, my fins adjusting to the environment around me. Everything I've been through, every adjustment I've made, and every change in my body has led up to this moment. This is survival. This is hunting.

It's time to hunt, the thought sharpening my focus. The goal is clear: catch, consume, adapt. Knowing that each bite could help me grow stronger makes the task more than just an instinctive need—it's an opportunity.

Without wasting another moment, I shift my body, my movements fluid as I glide toward the school of Hoopfish, watching for the right opening, the perfect moment to strike. Every flick of my tail, every muscle's twitch, feels honed and precise as I prepare to make my move.

As I watch the school of Hoopfish dart through the water, my eyes narrow in on the tight formation the Bonesharks have set up. They're not leaving much room, but I spot a small gap between the predators, just wide enough to slip through unnoticed. 

My heart beats a little faster as I realize this is my chance. The opening is perfect, and I can't afford to hesitate. In one fluid motion, I push off with my tail, my body cutting through the water quickly and precisely. 

My fins slice through the currents as I rocket toward the gap, the Bonesharks momentarily distracted by their own pursuit. I move in the blink of an eye, my mouth snapping open just as I reach the Hoopfish.

I'm quick—too quick for the fish to react. I grab three or four in a single strike, their slippery bodies wriggling in my mouth, but I don't stop there. I take a moment to reposition myself, allowing the Bonesharks to notice me and move closer to the school. 

If they see me as part of the action, as one of the hunters, maybe I can build a sort of... alliance—or at least a temporary truce. As I continue to devour the Hoopfish, I glance toward the Bonesharks. I don't make any aggressive moves; instead, I stay close to the group. 

As one of them nears, I nudge a few more fish their way, almost like offering a gesture of goodwill. They notice, pausing momentarily before scooping up a few remaining fish. My heart races—not out of fear, but because I'm doing something new that might work. This could be the beginning of something. If I keep my distance and play my part, I can be a trusted ally in their hunt, a symbiotic relationship where we all benefit. 

I grab a few more fish for myself before pulling away, careful not to overstep or push my luck. As I retreat back into the water, the Bonesharks remain focused on the Hoopfish, and I can't help but feel a slight sense of accomplishment. 

It worked... The thought hits me like a wave, and I feel a small, almost surprising rush of satisfaction. It actually worked. I can't help but linger on the moment for a second, allowing a brief swell of pride to fill me. 

My body moves smoothly through the water as I slip away from the Bonesharks' group, my movements quiet and controlled. They don't react—there is no sudden flick of their tails, no shift in their predatory gaze. They're focused on the school of Hoopfish, gliding through the water with purpose. For once, I'm not the prey. It feels strange, but in the best possible way.

As I swim farther, I glance back at them, just out of curiosity, to see if they've noticed. The faintest shift in their posture catches my eye—a moment where I glimpse their sharp eyes following my movement. But then, without a second thought, they return to their hunt, sliding into formation once more, circling their prey in a smooth, practiced rhythm. 

The entire encounter feels almost... insignificant to them now. Just another part of the water, just another element of the hunt. I guess I'm not the only one figuring this out, I think, a dry chuckle slipping through my mind, the tension in my body easing slightly. They're learning, too, I suppose.

Focus, I remind myself. You've got food, a little more confidence, and some space. Now, to eat the food I got, the pressure of hunger is easing as I turn my attention back to the struggling Hoopfish in my mouth. 

The sensation is unfamiliar; their frantic wriggling against my tongue contrasts with the hunger gnawing at me moments before. The urgency of survival pushes me forward. With a quick shift of my jaw, I begin chewing, the tender flesh of the Hoopfish breaking apart easily under the pressure. 

Its meat is soft and slightly slippery but firm enough to offer some resistance, a welcome texture after the raw ache of hunger. Each bite is a relief, the warmth and richness of the fish slowly filling the void inside me. 

As I swallow, the fish slides down my throat automatically, the familiar process of digestion kicking in. My body doesn't need to think about it—it just works. I feel the energy being absorbed, the nutrients weaving through me, and it's a quiet, soothing process.

I continued eating, and the sensation of my stomach filling gradually changed the hollow feeling inside to something more grounded. The hunger gnawing at my insides lessens with each fish, replaced by a deeper, more profound sense of satisfaction. 

It's as if each bite is a small victory, a step closer to continuing my journey in this strange world. The gnawing emptiness is fading, and something else is beginning—contentment in the most basic sense. I've done what I needed to do.

The physical satisfaction grows with every meal, but there's something more to it. Each bite feels like a quiet surge of power, as though the act of surviving is changing and reshaping me. 

My body absorbs everything—bones, meat, blood—turning the nutrients into strength. For a moment, the world feels less oppressive and more manageable. It's like the weight of everything, the fear of what's out there, is temporarily lifted.

Finally, I finished the last of the Hoopfish. The sense of fullness in my stomach is a welcome, grounding weight. My body feels nourished, and I can't help but sigh a small, quiet sigh of relief. Alright. That's done, I think, a flicker of satisfaction rising within me. 

[DNA Absorption]

Hoopfish

Choose One Possible Trait:

Hoop Antenna: This trait allows for the development of two unique, specialized antenna-like fins that grow from the creature's body, serving as highly sensitive sensory appendages. These fins aren't just for display—they are finely tuned to the environment around them. 

Their structure is designed to pick up on minute vibrations, shifts in water pressure, and subtle chemical signals. The fin extending from the tail to the head serves a slightly different function. It is more attuned to vibrations traveling through the water, giving the creature a heightened sense of its surroundings. 

N/A

"Well, this seems good... but there's got to be some catch," I think, narrowing my focus as I examine the details of the trait. It's tempting, but I'm not about to make a hasty decision. I start running through all the possible drawbacks, trying to look beyond the surface. "It doesn't seem like it has any immediate major downsides, but something about it doesn't sit right. I can't shake the feeling it might just get in the way eventually."

The image of those long, antenna-like fins flapping behind me flashes through my mind, and I can't help but cringe. "And the look? I'd probably end up looking like some oversized dog toy," I think, a shudder passing through me. "That's not exactly the kind of attention I want, especially in a world of predators." Then, the worst thought hits me. What if something grabs one of those fins? My stomach tightens. 

"A predator could just bite down on one and use it to toss me around like a chew toy. That's not exactly a position I want to be in." The idea tense my muscles, and I instinctively glance around, wary of unseen threats.

I take a deep breath, weighing the risks against the potential benefits. "It's just not worth it," I decide, my resolve hardening. "I need something more practical. Something that won't make me more of a target." With a mental sigh, I hit "N/A," bypassing the trait. "Not the right fit for me right now. Maybe next time."

"Well, that was a bit of a waste of time," I think with a deep sigh, feeling the weight of the disappointment settle in my chest. My mind races, trying to latch onto any shred of hope. What else could I find here? The question echoes in my head, unanswered. I try to dig through the jumbled mess of memories from the game, but everything feels disjointed now, like puzzle pieces that no longer fit together.

I remind myself that this isn't a game, and reality is hitting harder than I want to admit. I can't rely on what I used to know. The images of creatures and resources float past my thoughts, but they feel distant, almost like they belong to someone else's experience.

I think there wasn't much left to find, frustration creeping in. Just the things I've already eaten... and maybe boomerangs, spadefish... but—I pause, my focus slipping as I try to anchor myself to the present. It's not like I'm in a game anymore. I don't know what's available to me now. What's real.

I feel helpless as I float there, aimlessly drifting in the endless, eerily quiet expanse of water. The floating islands dot the horizon like scattered debris, their undersides casting distorted shadows in the pale light. 

The entire landscape feels alien, especially since it actually is, even though I should know it by now. This place... I glance around again, hoping for something familiar to ground me. It's just a bunch of floating islands. Nothing here looks like it could offer anything useful. I try to recall anything I've learned—any hints or clues that might give me a better idea of what's out here. What else could I possibly find here that might help me survive? 

"Okay, let's just take a step back," I think, a weary sigh slipping through my mind. Today's been long enough—getting used to this new body and dealing with my thoughts that keep spiraling... My brain feels like it's running a mile a minute, bombarded with confusion, uncertainty, and the weight of everything that's happened. I need a damn break.

The idea of just stopping, of finding someplace to rest, is starting to feel like the best decision I've made all day. I glance around at the water, searching for somewhere safe to take refuge, away from the endless expanse of open water. I should find a cave to sleep in, just for the night, I tell myself, a wave of quiet longing washing over me at the thought of settling down somewhere dark and cool. 

I can't keep pushing myself like this—not when my head's scattered. I need to take a moment and collect myself before I dive deeper into whatever comes next. My eyes drift toward the floating islands, their irregular shapes breaking up the horizon. They look peaceful and distant, perhaps they just holding the solitude I need. 

The weight of exhaustion settles deeper into my bones as I scan the islands, the soft blue light from the water making everything feel dreamlike. One island, in particular, catches my attention—a large one, towering over the others with a dark silhouette that stands out against the pale glow. It feels inviting, even from here. 

I think that one, already feeling a twinge of relief just at the thought of reaching it—somewhere secure, somewhere I could just... be. With a long, drawn-out exhale, I push off and begin swimming toward it. The motions of my fins are slow but steady, and I focus on the rhythm, letting the repetitive motion soothe my mind. 

After a short but steady swim, I finally arrive at the sizeable underwater island, its rocky silhouette emerging more clearly from the shifting blue water as I draw closer. As I approach, I feel a strange mix of exhaustion and relief, the thought of rest making my limbs feel lighter. 

From a distance, the island is more extensive than I thought. Its jagged edges break the water's surface in irregular shapes, casting shadows over the calm ocean floor. I glide closer, scanning the area, my instincts sharp despite my fatigue. And then, I see them.

A small group of Bonesharks is already here, their sleek, muscular bodies lurking near a cave beneath the island's rocky overhang. The cave's entrance is hidden from casual view, nestled in the shadows like a refuge. 

The Bonesharks seem to be relaxing. Their movements are slow and deliberate as they occupy the space, a few of them gently swaying in place, the dim light of the water filtering through the cave's cracks.

I pause, not wanting to intrude or stir up any unnecessary tension. They spot me almost immediately—those sharp, predatory eyes flicking in my direction. We all just stand there for a moment, silently assessing one another. The air feels thick with unspoken communication. They're clearly aware of my presence, and I'm aware of theirs.

But neither side makes a move, and the tension seems to dissipate after a brief moment. We both, without any outward agreement, decide to simply... ignore each other. The cave, with its cool shadows and quiet refuge, is large enough for all of us, and for now, it seems we're both content to treat this space as a neutral, safe place. There's no need to fight over territory, not here, not now.

I move further into the cave, finding a spot where the rock floor is relatively smooth and free from sharp edges. The shadows offer quiet comfort. The Bonesharks seem to settle back into their corners of the cave, each curling slightly in place, eyes half-lidded but ever-watchful. It's an unspoken truce between us—no aggression, no need for competition. Just mutual understanding.

As I settle down, the waves of exhaustion finally catch up to me. The warmth of the water around me, the cave's silence, and the other creatures' presence feel... oddly calming. For now, this is enough, closing my eyes and letting my body relax into the stillness of the cave.

---------------------

{A/N Well, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and enjoy the slow descriptive writing that I'm doing as I want it to be possible for you guys to be able to actually imagine the scenes instead of what feels like reading a script, but I'm already getting well used to writing this way so I should be able to make it twice a week next week or at the most two weeks for now.

As I have done with previous fics, I will put their System below so you can see the progress that he has made so far. I will see you all again next week.

[Status]

Species: Boneshark

Abilities: Prey Detection, Toxin Resistance, Pupolsion

Personal Traits: Adaptive Evolutionary Trait Activation and Physiological Augmentations.

Species Traits: Electromagnetic Sensitivity, Pressure Detection, Exoskeletal Integrity, Muscle Density, and Energy Reserves.

Gained Traits: Sensory Fins and Pupolsion Tubes