My Health was critically low and though I’d regained about eight points of Mana during the tussle, that wasn’t even enough to fire off a single Drain-O Bolt. The Sterilization Field vanished but the golden protection granted by the Slammer of Shielding still had almost an entire minute left before it zeroed out. Not that I could stay in there that long. Croc was doing its best to hold down the fort against the three Brawlers—well, two now—but things weren’t going well.

One of the thugs was dead, ripped completely in half with his legs not far from Croc’s paws while his torso was draped over the top of a bank of lockers, bits of gray intestine trailing down to the floor.

But the mimic dog was in bad shape, its Health sitting at just above the twenty-five percent mark. Mohawk must’ve chugged an elixir at some point, because his HP was back up above eighty percent and the other dickhead barely looked like he had a scratch on him. I couldn’t just barrel in there, though. I was one stiff breeze away from keeling over, my Health was pitifully low, and my Mana was running on E, which meant I couldn’t cast any of my most devastating attacks.

Using the protection of the barrier, I ripped out a Jolt Cola, tilted it onto its side, punched a hole with my demolition screwdriver, then proceeded to shotgun the whole thing like it was 2009 and I was at a barracks party in Pendleton.

It took me less than five seconds to drain the can, and by the time I was done, arcane power surged through my veins, practically begging to be used. I tossed the can aside and let out a thunderous belch, loud enough to shake the room and wake the dead. Then I picked up the Slammer—muttering “That’s so ’90s!”—and tucked it back into my pocket, dispelling the barrier of protection.

Face Tattoos still had the baseball bat jutting out of his leg and Temperance was currently clinging to his back, her legs wrapped around his stomach, while she bit at his neck and savaged his face with gleaming black claws. His HP was down below fifteen percent, and I reckoned he didn’t have long for this world. Mohawk, however, spun around at the sound of my gaseous war cry.

His eyes slid around me and landed on the crumpled and bloodied form of the spell slinger, dead on the floor in a pool of blood and shattered skull fragments.

“Natasha,” Mohawk whispered, his lips trembling. “No, no, no.” The words were equal parts denial and prayer. A supplication to whatever cruel god he believed in.

I suppressed another small pang of guilt and used the brief pause to activate Pharmacist’s Scales, swapping forty points of Mana for an equal amount of Health, which pushed me back up to seventy percent. I was still a long way from fully recovered, but it was good enough for government work.

“If you didn’t want her to end up dead,” I taunted, raising my hammer and resting it against my shoulder, “then maybe you should’ve avoided the whole murderhobo angle. Turns out that actions have consequences, and the dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.”

“You’re a dead man and you don’t even know it yet,” Mohawk howled, and then he started to grow.

His face turned cherry red and his whole body swelled, veins pulsing and muscles bulging obscenely. Bits and pieces of armor started popping off, until he stood in nothing but shredded camo pants that were so tight they looked like Daisy Dukes. Mohawk stood nine feet tall, half again as wide, and now had skin that was the blister red of a burn victim. Bony white spikes exploded out of his shoulders and horns jutted from his head while fangs filled his mouth.

“This is gonna blow,” I muttered, mind racing to form a plan. I was drawing a blank.

And before I could do anything, the red monster was barreling toward me like an out-of-control freight train, enormous legs and arms pumping as he ran.

I was sorely missing Slippery When Wet—or any sort of crowd control ability for that matter. Hell, this guy’s Resonance Score was probably scraping the bottom of the barrel, so even Bad Trip would’ve been a lifesaver. But I didn’t have any of those equipped, nor did I have time to swap out Relics on the fly.

I’d just have to make do with what I had.

I pointed my hammer and activated Doodle Buddy.

A blob of living ink rose from the floor, assuming the form of a five-foot-tall stick figure girl with a triangular dress, yellow pigtails, and a rough-drawn pitchfork clutched in one hand.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The summoned doodle lasted all of three seconds.

The living drawing raised her weapon and dashed toward the lumbering, red-skinned titan—

And was immediately pancaked by a giant foot the size of a manhole cover.

That was thoroughly disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

I slammed my hammer back into its loop, then raised both hands and unleashed a Drain-O Bolt from one palm and a concentrated beam of pressurized water from the other. The blue ball of potent corrosive bleach slapped against the giant’s chest and immediately went to work, eating through unprotected skin and the muscle beneath, but the freak didn’t even seem to notice.

That or he didn’t care.

I lowered my left hand just a hair, so the water blast was aimed squarely at ol’ boy’s rod and tackle. That got his attention. Especially when Wild Surge triggered and a second stack of Water Erosion hit the son of a bitch in the nutsack. But Mohawk kept right on coming, powering through the stream of water undeterred.

I idly wondered if he had a Relic similar to the Gremlin’s Groin Guardian in place. It would make sense for a build like his.

I danced back two steps and activated Moving Walkway, which violently dragged me away from the bright red murder machine. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the wooden gym bench until the back of my legs slammed into its edge and I toppled over, landing on my back with a wheeze. I hit the ground like a sack of bricks, knocking the breath from my lungs, but thanks to the rush of pure adrenaline coursing through me, I hardly noticed.

I gained my feet just in time to see a fist, larger than my head, driving toward me like a battering ram. I dove right, the fist narrowly passing over my head, then rolled upright with my demolition screwdriver in hand. I lunged, driving the head of the screwdriver into the giant’s thigh, dropping his Health by a grand total of seven percent—and that was with the Bloodletting bonus in effect. I wasn’t sure what Relic he was using, but he seemed to be damn-near indestructible.

I juked right, but I was too slow by half.

A knee shot forward like a piston and nailed me in the chest.

There was a bright flash of disorienting light and a wave of force ripped through my body. Something broke. Actually… a lot of somethings broke all at once. It felt like half the bones in my body had just been simultaneously turned to shards of glass.

I flew backward like a rag doll and slammed into the lockers with a resounding clang, then slid down into a rubbery heap. I couldn’t stand and my right arm hung limp and useless at my side.

Mohawk stomped forward with killing intent.

Those were the footsteps of certain death approaching, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. The ride had barely begun, and it was already over. Looked like I would end up being just another cautionary tale for Croc to tell future Delvers.

I couldn’t help but wonder what he would say about me.

“One time, there was this Delver named Dan who had terrible hemorrhoids. Ended up having every bone in his body turned into Jell-O. A real shame. He was a good fella.”

“Any last words?” the guy asked, looming over me like a gravestone.

“Your Mohawk looks dumb as fuck,” I gurgled, blood frothing on my lips.

He snarled and brought a foot screaming toward me face—

But before the killing blow landed, a leather sofa sideswiped Mohawk like a tractor trailer, knocking him into the nearby sinks. The sofa—an actual, fully-fledged, honest-to-God love seat—flipped over, cushions cartwheeling through the air, and landed at an odd angle against the lockers.

It felt like a fever dream, and a host of questions raced through my mind.

Most of those questions were furniture related.

Like, why was there a sofa in here?

And, where did it come from??

Also, who the fuck threw the sofa???

Before I could fully work through the flurry of questions, there was a blur of motion, followed in short order by a flash of pale scales, violet hair, and curling horns.

I knew the figure even half-dead.

Jakob the Scales.

The level 25 Cendral had a hulking tower shield strapped to his right arm and another shield attached to his left—though that one was forged from crystalline blue light, which emanated from a large sapphire attached to his wrist.

Mohawk shook his head, clearly dazed from the blow, then pushed away from the sinks and took a wild swing at the encroaching Cendral.

Jakob effortlessly deflected the blow, knocking Mohawk off-balance, then smashed him in the teeth with the tower shield. Mohawk dropped to the ground as though his legs had spontaneously decided to call it quits at that very moment. Although Jakob carried no visible offensive weapon—other than the bazooka slung across his back—that didn’t seem to deter him in the least from laying the smackdown of the century on Mohawk.

Using the dual shields strapped to his arms, the lizard man went to work with brutal, workmanlike efficiency. Jakob curb stomped one knee, shattering the bone with an audible crack, then proceeded to break Mohawk’s other leg with the blunt edge of the heavy metal shield. The enormous thug howled in pain, raised a hand in retaliation, and unleashed a column of noxious green light. The spell hit the surface of the blue shield and evaporated in a harmless hiss of steam.

Before Mohawk could fire off another blast, Jakob jammed the blue shield straight down, slicing off Mohawk’s outstretched hand just below the elbow. The limb came away cleanly, almost as though the shield had cauterized the wound.

The severed limb landed with a wet thump on the tiles.

Mohawk caterwauled even louder—understandable, given the circumstances—and reached for Jakob with his other hand.

That was a mistake. The last one the man was ever liable to make.