The chamber after the guardian was quiet, almost eerily so. Dust hung in the air, glittering faintly from residual sparks. My muscles screamed in protest, sweat dripping from hairline to fingertips, but my mind was sharp—alert, aware, calculating.
"Rest is tactical," Notice murmured. "Recovery preserves efficiency. Overexertion diminishes performance."
I sank against a wall, letting my body collapse just enough to regain breath and energy. Best Welder hummed faintly beneath my skin, Rhythm synced with deep, deliberate breaths, and Enhanced Perception flickered gently, scanning the chamber for residual hazards.
My hands flexed experimentally. Sparks danced faintly across fingertips, a gentle reminder that even in recovery, potential surged beneath the surface.
Minutes passed—or perhaps hours. The dungeon's pulse remained steady. I could feel the corridors ahead, traps, enemies, possibilities. Preparation now was just as crucial as combat later.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but pacing, learning, mastering timing between fight and strategy.