We’re standing at the base of the most absurdly evil-looking tower I’ve ever seen. It’s like someone asked a child to draw a “bad guy castle” and then built it to scale.

Pointy towers stab the sky. A blood-red glow pulses from the top. There’s even an actual lightning strike just for dramatic effect. This place is not subtle at all.

“This is it, Greg,” Bob says, his voice full of awe. He stares up at the tower like it’s the answer to all his problems and not the most obvious “stay away” sign ever. His cape flutters behind him, which is impressive since there’s no breeze. I suspect the universe is trolling me.

“Sure,” I say, gripping my spear tighter. “Totally safe. Definitely not a deathtrap.”

Bob doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy psyching himself up with phrases like “This is my destiny” and “The world is counting on me.”

I’m over here calculating how many steps it’ll take before he trips over his cape and gets us both killed. My money’s on three.

“Let’s do this!” he yells, pointing his sword at the tower’s entrance.

I sigh. “Yeah, let’s go meet our doom. Can’t wait.”

The inside smells worse than I imagined. And I imagined bad. It’s like someone boiled swamp water and threw in a dash of dead fish. Every step we take makes a squelching sound, and I can actually feel my boots getting heavier with each step. Fantastic.

“This place has ambiance,” Bob says, looking around like he’s just walked into a five-star inn.

“If by ‘ambiance’ you mean ‘a smell that makes me want to rip my own nose off,’ then sure,” I reply.

We don’t even make it ten steps before the first trap springs. Blades shoot out of the walls like this place is a giant blender.

Bob yelps, diving to the ground in a way that’s less of a “heroic dodge” and more of a “panicked flop.”

“This is fine,” he squeaks, his voice a full octave higher than usual. “Totally fine.”

“You’re about to get diced into Bob-nuggets.” I grab his arm and yank him to his feet just in time to avoid a blade that sings through the air where his head was. “Quick reflexes, huh? Real impressive.”

He tries to look cool, brushing imaginary dust off his cape. “It’s part of the hero package.”

I’m too busy dodging another blade to roll my eyes properly.

By some miracle—and let’s be clear, it’s mostly me doing the work—we make it through the traps and into the next room.

And that’s when I see it: the monster.

Oh, it’s a beauty. By “beauty,” I mean it looks like a bear, a porcupine, and a tiger had a very bad day, then decided to come back as a single angry, spiky abomination. Its claws are the size of my forearm, and its glowing red eyes scream “unstable anger issues.”

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Bob freezes. “That’s… bigger than I expected.”

“Shocker,” I say, gripping my spear. “Got a plan, Chosen One?”

He nods. “I’ll distract it, and you go for the weak spot.”

“Great,” I say, side-eyeing him. “And where exactly is this weak spot?”

He blinks. “Uh… it’s… um…”

“You don’t know,” I deadpan.

“Well, there’s always a weak spot,” he says.

The monster’s roar hits me like a thunderclap, shaking the air and rattling my bones. It charges, each step sending shockwaves through the floor.

Bob, in all his clueless glory, raises his sword and screams, “Over here, beast!” like he’s auditioning for the role of dead guy number one.

The monster lunges. It’s fast. Too fast for something that big.

Bob barely rolls out of the way before its claws carve deep gouges into the stone floor. The air’s electric, alive with the sound of scraping metal and snarls.

My pulse is hammering, my spear slick in my hands. “Bob!” I yell. “Keep it moving! Don’t stop!”

“I’m trying!” he shouts back, his voice cracking as he stumbles over his own feet.

The monster turns on him, eyes glowing like burning coals. It swipes again.

Bob dives as the claws miss him by a hair.

I don’t wait. I sprint forward, adrenaline roaring in my ears.

My spear finds the monster’s side, sliding between its scales.

But it barely reacts. It whips its head around, teeth snapping.

I only just manage to pull back before I lose an arm.

“Greg!” Bob yells, scrambling to his feet. “Plan?”

“Working on it!” I snarl, ducking under another swipe.

The beast’s claws whistle through the air, lethal and relentless.

I jab again, this time aiming for its exposed underbelly.

But it twists too fast. My spear skids off its scales like I’m trying to poke a boulder.

Bob swings his sword wildly, yelling something about “the power of destiny.”

The monster doesn’t care. It stands up, towering over both of us, and slams its massive claws into the ground.

The impact sends me flying, with my spear clattering out of reach. I hit the wall hard enough to see stars.

“Greg!” Bob’s voice is panicked now. He’s dodging, but barely. His sword glances off the monster’s flank, doing absolutely nothing. “I think it’s mad!”

“Yeah, I noticed!” I growl, dragging myself to my feet. My eyes lock on its neck, on the patch of discolored scales. Weak spot. That’s it.

“Bob!” I shout. “Get it to turn!”

Bob doesn’t question me for once. He darts to the side, waving his arms like a lunatic. “Hey! Big guy! Over here!”

The monster roars again, the sound deafening. It lunges for him.

But Bob’s faster this time. He ducks. Rolls. Spins. His sword flashes as he keeps its attention on him.

“Now!” I yell, grabbing my spear and charging. The weak spot gets closer, glowing red in the chaos.

The monster turns too late.

I leap, driving the spear with every ounce of strength I have.

The world seems to pause.

The spear pierces the spot, sinking deep into flesh.

The monster lets out an ear-splitting shriek. Its body thrashes wildly.

I hold on, gritting my teeth as it bucks and twists, trying to shake me loose.

“Greg!” Bob shouts. “Finish it!”

I twist the spear, driving it deeper.

The monster shakes. Roars. Collapses.

Dust explodes, choking the air. Silence.

I can’t breathe. Can’t see.

When it clears, the monster is still.

Bob collapses onto his back, arms spread like he’s posing for a victory painting. “We did it,” he breathes, eyes wide with disbelief.

“We barely survived,” I reply. My legs feel like jelly, and I’m pretty sure there’s swamp muck in places swamp muck should never be.

Bob grins up at me, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Still counts.”

I glare at him. “If we’re counting, that’s one point for the monster for almost killing us and zero points for your ‘plan.’”

“Come on,” he says, sitting up and giving me a grin that’s way too smug. “We’re a great team.”

“Sure,” I say, deadpan. “The dream team of disasters.”

Bob jumps to his feet, already back to full energy. “This is just the beginning, Greg. We’ve got destiny, adventure, and—”

I groan, cutting him off. “Mud in my boots and regret in my soul. Let’s move.”

As we head to the next room, Bob’s humming again. I’m too tired to argue. For now.