I made the first move. Welding debris mid-air into jagged projectiles, sparks scattering across the floor. The guardian's eye flared, tracking, but my rhythm-driven strikes forced it to retreat, recalculating.
Pain shot through my arms as heat from sparks surged, but each strike was precise. My pulse thrummed with Rhythm, guiding the welds, the timing, the dodges. Enhanced Perception caught the faintest air distortions—predicting swings, missteps, and openings.
It moved faster now, more aggressive, blue light pulsing as if warning, testing. I dodged, blocked, countered. Every movement was a conversation—a dance of survival and skill, trial and adaptation.
Notice's calm voice cut through adrenaline: "Maintain focus. Integrate strategy. Preserve life where possible."
I adjusted, shifting tactics mid-combat. Each weld, each strike, each step was now part of a larger rhythm. The guardian tested me—and I responded.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but striking, reacting, mastering the flow of battle.