I was bleeding in places I didn’t even know could bleed. Nose, ears, mouth—check. Confidence—ha, dead. My ribs still humd from the orchestra of cracks they’d played last round. My back felt like it had auditioned as the dungeon’s mop.
My jacket sleeve hung in ribbons. My "weapons" list currently included: zero knives, one bent chain bracelet, and sarcasm. Last Chapter—yeah, I call it that now—I got turned into pavent pizza. This Chapter, apparently, I was supposed to try again.
The Guardian stepped closer, tail smashing benches like it was bored of the furniture. Mana pressure made the edges of my vision shake, like the whole world wanted to slide off the table. Blue light oozed out of the floor cracks; roots throbbed under tile like the dungeon had a pulse and I wasn’t invited.
[Warning: Survival odds
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