The massive hall stretched before me, walls rippling with faint reflections, each surface a mirror of movement—my own, the enemies', the dungeon's. Shadows shifted unnaturally, forming shapes that were both familiar and wrong. Every step echoed, bouncing off stone and steel like warnings.
Notice's voice threaded through the tension: "Perception, rhythm, welding—integrate. Every reflection is data, every sound a clue. Fail to read the hall, and consequences will escalate."
I moved deliberately, sparks flying as I welded protective plates mid-step. Rhythm pulsed in my chest, guiding timing, syncing footfall with airborne projectiles and shadow strikes. Enhanced Perception highlighted micro-movements—the flutter of shadow, the vibration of energy, the faint glimmer of traps.
Ahead, a massive shadow coalesced into something humanoid yet grotesque. Its eyes—if they could be called that—glowed with the dungeon's pulse. It mirrored every movement I made, every strike I attempted.
I exhaled slowly. This wasn't just combat. It was reflection. Mastery. Test of skill, mind, and morality combined.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but facing the mirror, adapting, mastering.