I sat cross-legged, a worn map spread before me. Every corridor, every trap, every chamber etched itself into my mind. The metallic tang thrummed faintly in the air, syncing with my heartbeat.
"Planning increases survival probability," Notice murmured. "Evaluate risks. Anticipate enemies. Optimize skill use."
I traced paths with a fingertip, imagining each step, strike, dodge. I could hear the hiss of traps, feel shadows brushing walls, smell danger before it arrived. Every hand movement, every weld, every breath had a purpose in this mental rehearsal.
I imagined enemy patterns, weaknesses, and habits. Enhanced Perception hummed, highlighting subtle shifts in air, movement, energy residue. Rhythm nudged me, connecting thought to action, anticipation to execution.
Moral stakes pressed in. Trapped innocents appeared in my mind's eye. Points glimmered like bait. I clenched my fists. Responsibility outweighed temptation. Each choice reinforced focus, tempering fear into strategy.
Minutes, hours—time blurred. My body reacted to simulations as if real, muscles coiled, senses alert. By the end, the dungeon felt no longer impossible—navigable, conquerable.
I rose. Skin slick with sweat, muscles stiff but ready. Every pulse, every breath, every spark of power prepared me for what awaited.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but thinking, planning, mastering.