The dungeon's maw opened, swallowing light. I stepped forward, boots scraping stone. Rhythm throbbed beneath my chest; metallic tang thickened in my lungs.
"Dungeon initialized. Adapt or fail," Notice said.
Walls stretched upward, slick and jagged. Air moved through cracks, carrying faint vibrations—the dungeon aware. Shadows pooled, shifting with each flicker of light.
Quick shadows struck. Sparks hissed from welded shields. Rhythm guided me, every dodge, every strike, precise. Pain lanced through muscles, lungs burned, metallic tang thick in my throat.
A trap triggered—spinning blades whirled from above. Instinct moved me before thought. I twisted mid-leap, landing hard. Notice prompted: "Evaluate. Adapt. Survive. Moral decisions remain relevant."
Two paths diverged: enemies promising high points, or trapped innocents. I felt the old ache of moral choice. Protection won. I weaved, shielded, struck, moved in rhythm. Sparks and shadows, sweat and metallic tang, all melded into a pulse of action.
The last shadow dissolved. Silence. My chest heaved, adrenaline lingering. I had applied planning, skill, judgment—and survived.
Ahead, darkness stretched. Waiting. Alive. I flexed my fingers experimentally. Best Welder hummed, Rhythm guided, Enhanced Perception vigilant.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but learning, planning, fighting, ready.