Mizu sits immediately in a smooth movement. As Vergil remains stiting for a moment, Mizu does as well. Her breathing returns more toward normal, now she's no longer squirming like a greased pig. Her head snaps toward Vergil when he rejects the idea of going again. She isn't so far gone she'll forget what she's learned. She can do better at keeping him in a headlock, now she has one more defense to anticipate. The urge to belabor the point rises, but Mizu bites it back. No doubt Vergil would be as much a solid wall denying her no matter what she said. No point wasting the words.

To be fair, she didn't expect any form of sparring when she stopped by today, and she wasn't injured. They'll spar again soon. Mizu's come out ahead.

"I'll do better," Mizu promises as she stands, still light on her feet. Her energy has only increased from this exercise. She'll practice the moves on her own time in her own space, both hers and some of the ones she saw him use. If it weren't for Vergil, Mizu would spend practically no time injured at all in Folkmore (so far), and that would be a far stranger feeling.

So she undoes the wraps, mindful of Vergil though there's no more promise of sparring. His apartment hardly competes for her attention, sparse as it is.

"Why are you so good at hand to hand combat?" The question betrays her bias. He's a strong swordsman, and he has all that devil stuff, of which Mizu's certain she hasn't seen the half of. With all that, how did he also become so good at this form of combat? Why did he bother? How is he so damn good at all of it? Necessity, she knows, must be part of the answer, but it's hard to fathom him having a difficult time with... most combat.