The hall contracted, shadows converged, and the mini-boss merged with the dungeon's pulse itself. Every test I had faced—the shadows, traps, puzzles, morality—condensed into this final trial.
I flexed my fingers, sparks dancing, Rhythm steady, Enhanced Perception alive, calculating, sensing the faintest anomalies. Every weld, every movement, every heartbeat mattered.
The fight became a blur of heat, metal, light, and sound. I welded shields mid-flight, redirected attacks, exploited reflections, and manipulated the environment. Every dodge, every strike, every protection of innocents flowed seamlessly, a culmination of everything learned.
Pain lanced my chest, exhaustion crept through muscles, yet focus remained razor-sharp. I was not reacting—I was conducting, orchestrating, anticipating, mastering the flow of chaos.
And then—the opening.
I drove a welded strike through the converging core of shadow, energy, and reflection. Light flared, resonating with Rhythm. The hall trembled. The shadows shattered, the dungeon's pulse stuttered, and silence descended, heavy and absolute.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but complete, whole, mastering chaos, morality, and self.