I started by watching videos, and I chose 10,000 combat power.

The other two coaches didn't realize what was happening until their partner's wrist was broken and his body began to sink.

The tall coach who rushed towards A-Jie was locked in a fierce battle with him. The two were evenly matched, and bubbles kept rising around them, making the seawater murky.

He caught a glimpse of a yellow figure falling out of the corner of his eye.

His heart suddenly tightened, he loosened Ah Jie's shoulder strap, turned around and struggled to swim downstream.

The other coach who had been entangled with Kobayashi also let go.

He was dragged down several meters by Kobayashi's flippers. He finally managed to break free and was about to fight back when he looked up and saw his companion's pale face flash past his eyes as he rapidly sank, the speed increasing.

His mind went blank for a moment. He didn't care about Xiaolin anymore and turned around to chase after her, kicking his flippers more frantically than ever before.

Ah Jie and Xiao Lin did not give chase.

They hovered in the water, watching the two yellow figures rapidly descend and catch up with their sinking companion.

The tall coach grabbed the man's buoyancy control device shoulder strap with one hand, pressed down on the air tank on his back with the other, and pulled him upwards with force.

Another coach supported his waist, and the two of them, one above the other, pushed him upward with all their might.

The rescued person was still bubbling from their mouth, but it was no longer in strings; instead, it was in thin strands, as fine as hair—the last traces of air being squeezed out of their lungs by the seawater.

His mask was filled with water, obscuring his eyes, but his mouth was wide open, his breathing tube was nowhere to be seen, and his lips were a dark purple.

The tall coach reached out to turn the valve on his gas cylinder, only to find it was completely shut off; the knob was turned to the tightest position, and he couldn't open it with just one hand.

He used both hands, pressing the gas cylinder with his left hand and twisting it forcefully with his right, his arm muscles tensing. Finally, the valve loosened slightly, and with a hiss, air flowed out again, making a faint sound in the pressure reducing valve.

He put his companion's breathing tube back into his mouth, pressed the mouthpiece down with his hand to prevent it from falling out, then patted his face, trying to say something through the mask, but only managed to produce a string of bubbles.

The man took a breath, a natural bodily response—his lungs were filled with water, the carbon dioxide concentration was alarmingly high, and his brain issued the final command: breathe, no matter what he inhaled.

He took a breath of air mixed with seawater, which choked him and made him cough violently. His body arched like a shrimp, and each cough brought out a mouthful of seawater, mixed with blood and acid from his stomach, which flowed out along the edge of his snorkel and spread into a slightly turbid, light red mist in the seawater.

The three people began to slowly rise to the surface.

The tall coach controlled the ascent speed, pausing every few meters to give his teammates' lungs time to adjust to the pressure changes.

The man gradually regained consciousness, his eyes opening slightly. Through his water-filled mask, he saw the blue seawater, rising bubbles, and his companion's anxious face. Then, he remembered what had just happened—that steel-like hand had grabbed his wrist, and with a crack, the bone shattered.

He shivered, fear seeping from his very bones, seeping through his body like ice water.

When they surfaced, the sunlight was so bright that everyone had to close their eyes.

The tall coach took off his mask, took deep breaths of fresh air, and then shouted at the top of his lungs towards their boat, "Help! Someone's injured!"

The sound was loud and carried far across the sea, startling several seabirds that were perched on nearby rocks. They took flight with a whooshing sound, circling in the sky and emitting sharp cries.

Their boat was a medium-sized yacht with a white hull and the dive shop's logo hanging at the stern—a blue cartoon octopus holding two small flags with the dive shop's name, "Blue Ocean Diving," written on them.

Hearing the shouts, the ship's duty instructor and captain ran out of the cabin, rushed to the stern, and peered down from the gunwale.

There were three coaches in the water. One of them was being supported by the other two. His face was pale, his lips were black, and his left wrist was swollen like a bun. The color had changed from purplish-red to bluish-black, indicating that the bone was broken.

The captain was a fat man in his forties, with a belly so big it could almost burst his life jacket, and half of his hair was thinning out, the rest of it disheveled by the sea breeze.

He directed the crew to lower the ladder and throw down lifebuoys, and together they pulled the three people aboard.

The rescued coach lay on the deck, trembling, his teeth chattering and making a "clucking" sound.

His left wrist hung at an abnormal angle, palm up, forearm down, the joint in the middle as if it had been disassembled, the bones no longer connected, held together only by skin and flesh.

Someone brought a first-aid kit, someone else brought blankets, and someone else called an ambulance. The captain squatted down beside the injured coach, frowning as he examined his hand, then looked up at the other two coaches, his eyes filled with confusion.

"What's going on?" The captain's voice was somewhat muffled.

The tall instructor was drying himself with a blanket when the captain asked a question. He paused for a moment, then continued drying, saying with his head down, "We encountered some unreasonable people underwater. We just went up to them and asked if they needed an instructor or to take photos—just normal sales pitches. They attacked us without saying a word. Look at Old Zhao's hand; it was twisted off. That person even pulled out his oxygen tube and turned off the gas cylinder; it almost killed him."

His tone was forceful, as if he were very angry. His voice was half a tone higher than usual, and his speaking speed was a third faster. His eyes darted around, and he dared not meet the captain's gaze.

Another coach chimed in, his voice also sounding somewhat bluffing: "Exactly. We've been in this business for so many years, and we've never encountered anything like this. That guy was too ruthless. We were just doing normal sales pitches, and he went for the kill. Old Zhao is still unconscious. Look at his hands, how much will it cost to heal them?"

The captain did not speak.

He squatted there, looked at the injured coach's face, then at his hand, then stood up, walked to the cabin door, picked up the walkie-talkie hanging on the wall, dialed a channel, and said a few words.

A hoarse male voice came from the other end of the walkie-talkie; it was Manager Zhou from the dive shop. He was in his forties, a retired soldier, and had been in the industry for over a decade, having seen all sorts of people and things.

"Mr. Zhou, something's happened."

The captain's voice was low. "Old Zhao was beaten underwater and his hand was broken. He's on the boat now. The person who beat him wasn't one of our guests; it was someone from another boat."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the walkie-talkie, then Manager Zhou's voice came through: "Other ships? Which ship?"

The captain turned and glanced at the three instructors.

The tall coach was feeding his injured teammate water with a small cup. The water dripped down his chin and onto the deck, soaking a patch of it.

The captain asked, "Do you know which ship the person who assaulted you was from?"

The tall man stretched out his hand and pointed at the white yacht on the distant sea, his finger trembling slightly.

"That one. It didn't come on our boat, it was their own boat. The big white one."

The captain looked in the direction he was pointing.

The white yacht was moored at the edge of the reef, its hull dazzling in the sunlight. With three decks and a streamlined design, it was as elegant as a swan.

The captain's eyes widened.

His mouth was slightly open, his chin slightly lowered, and his expression changed from anger to shock.

His gaze lingered on the ship for a few seconds before he looked away and whispered into the walkie-talkie, "It's that ship built in Italy, the 32-meter one, the one we talked about at the dock before."

Silence fell again on the other end of the walkie-talkie. This silence lasted longer than the last, so long that the captain thought the signal had been lost and almost shouted "General Manager Zhou!"

Then, Manager Zhou's voice rang out, this time no longer hoarse, but icy cold: "Ask them if they've fallen back into their old habits again?"

The captain's throat moved.

He turned around, walked back to the deck, and squatted down in front of the three coaches.

His gaze swept from the tall man's face to another face, and then back to the tall man's face.

The tall coach felt a little uncomfortable under his gaze, coughed lightly, and said, "What are you looking at?"

"General Manager Zhou is asking you," the captain's voice was calm, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, "if you've fallen back into your old habits again?"

The tall coach's face turned deathly pale.

The other coach's expression wasn't much better; his lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Looking at their expressions, the captain understood everything. He had been in this industry for over a decade and had seen far too many dirty tricks—turning off gas cylinders, removing face shields, creating panic, and raising prices on the spot.

Some coaches call this a "marketing tactic," a "psychological tactic," or an "industry unspoken rule."

But in his view, that was extortion, a crime.

He had mentioned this to President Zhou several times, asking him to keep an eye on the people below and stop them from engaging in any underhanded practices.

General Manager Zhou has also been in charge; he slammed his fist on the table during meetings, cursed, deducted bonuses, and even fired people.

But this industry makes money quickly, and you can only manage it for a short time, not forever.

Some people can't resist reaching out, and once they do it, they'll do it again, and once they do it again, they'll take it for granted.

"What exactly did you do?"

The captain's voice suddenly rose in pitch.

The tall coach lowered his head, staring at the puddle of water on the deck, without saying a word.

The other coach also looked down at his flippers, which were covered in sand, glistening in the sunlight.

The injured coach lay on the ground with his eyes closed, not knowing whether he was truly unconscious or pretending, but he didn't move at all, not even his eyelashes twitched.

The captain stood up, walked to the ship's side, facing the sea with his back to the three men.

He took out his phone, dialed Manager Zhou's number, and said only one sentence after the call connected: "Manager Zhou, they've done it again. This time, they've really messed up."