The hallway narrowed. Air thick, damp, metallic, electric. Dungeon holding its breath. Rhythm faltered, then steadied.
"Energy spike detected. Mini-boss proximity: confirmed," Notice whispered.
A slow rasp, metal against stone. From shadows emerged a humanoid, half-formed, sinew and plates threaded with light. Its face smooth, save for a crack where one blue eye burned.
It mimicked me. Every feint, pivot, hesitation—feeding, learning.
I slowed. Breathed. Let Rhythm guide. Lunges came—unpredictable, off-beat. Sparks hissed, metal screamed, heat flooded my skin. Pain throbbed, ribs ached, lungs burned—but focus held firm.
I welded debris mid-fight, threw sparks into its eye, disoriented it. Opening came. Blade drove deep into its chest. Blue light flared, then dimmed. Its body fragmented into mist. Silence.
Heartbeat wild. Breath ragged. Adrenaline lingered, echo of mirrored movements haunting my mind. Every enemy was a reflection, a test—not just of strength, but identity, judgment, growth.
"Mini-boss defeated. Points awarded. Emotional stability fluctuating. Suggest recalibration," Notice said.
I laughed once, low and breathless. "Later."
Hands trembled—not from fear, but release. I had won. Adapted. Learned. Survived.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but fighting, adapting, understanding what survival truly demanded.