The next chamber was a maze of traps: spinning blades, pits, swinging pendulums, collapsing floors. Every step was a calculation. Every heartbeat, a metronome for survival.
"Environmental hazards escalating," Notice said. "Precision and timing are essential. Adapt strategies."
I moved. Welding debris into stepping platforms mid-leap. Sparks sizzled as metal struck stone and blades. Rhythm guided timing—every motion synced to pulse, every dodge a note in the melody of survival.
Enhanced Perception caught the subtle distortions in air, micro-vibrations hinting at triggers. My mind projected movements, calculating dozens of outcomes in milliseconds. Pain flared as I misstepped once, but instinct and skill corrected immediately.
By the time I reached the far side, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat, every muscle trembling, I realized the dungeon had tested more than skill. It tested patience, judgment, timing, and courage.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but precise, adaptable, mastering the rhythm of chaos.