Between strikes, between dodges, between welding debris into protective barriers, I glimpsed innocents—trapped in energy cages the guardian had created. Points flashed from an alternate corridor, tempting, measurable, simple.
My chest tightened. Reward or responsibility? Morality or survival?
Notice whispered: "Every choice echoes. Choose wisely. Protect or gain—impact is real."
I chose protection. Welding shields to block attacks, pulling hazards away, redirecting the guardian's strikes. Sparks flew, metal screamed, sweat stung eyes. The innocents' cries were sharp, visceral, and I moved in time with Rhythm to reach them.
One by one, cages shattered, freedom granted. The guardian roared in frustration, lashing out at me—but I anticipated. Every movement, strike, weld, and rhythm step kept innocents safe.
By the time the last cage broke, my muscles trembled, heat burned, pulse thundered—but pride surged beneath exhaustion. Points would wait. Morality would not.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but protecting, judging, mastering the weight of choices.