“He’s not dead yet,” Oliver hissed, his voice low and wary. Oliver was still lying flat on the violently shaking iron bridge, his eyes locked on the massive monster in the middle of the acid lake. Gluttony had indeed choked. The fifty ton steel crane was lodged deep in its throat, preventing its gigantic jaws from closing. Its abstract body, a mass of fat and thousands of mouths, was now swelling unnaturally. Its pale skin had turned translucent, revealing torrents of neon green fluid raging inside it. [Stomach Capacity: 105%] [Status: Overload] [Regeneration: Active, attempting to digest steel] “Look at the number,” Oliver said, pointing with his creaking mechanical hand. “It’s trying to digest the crane. Its stomach acid is extremely corrosive. If we leave it alone for five more minutes, the steel will completely melt and it’ll feel relieved. Then it’ll eat us all for dessert.” “Then what the hell are we supposed to do now?” Claire shouted from her sniping position on th

The world was shards of glass. Wherever Oliver looked, he saw himself. Thousands of Olivers. Some facing forward, some facing backward, some even upside down on the ceiling. “Claire? Throg?” Oliver called. His voice bounced through the deceptive corridors of mirrors, creating echoes that made his head spin. “Claire... Claire... Throg... Throg...” There was no answer. One second ago, the three of them had walked into the arena together. But the moment the pink mist settled over the room, his companions vanished. Gone. As if they had never been there to begin with. “Spatial separation,” Oliver analyzed silently, his hand brushing against the cold surface of a mirror beside him. “Classic. Lust wants us to play solo.” Oliver walked very slowly. The golden Magnum pistol was gripped in his right hand, while the mechanical hand on his left was ready to fire cards at any moment. The pink mist smelled incredibly sweet. The scent of lilies, vanilla, and..

“Damn it... my face... my asset...” Lust retreated steadily, one hand covering her left cheek, which had caved inward. Thick purple blood seeped through the gaps between her fingers. Her perfect beauty was ruined, and for the Demon of Desire, that pain was far worse than death. She did not counterattack physically. Instead, she slowly stepped back, slipping into the shadows of the shattered mirrors piled in the corner of the arena. “You two...” hissed Lust, her voice echoing from every direction, dripping with poison. “You think you’re a perfect pair? Just wait until you see what’s inside each other’s heads. It smells far worse than a corpse.” SWUSH! Lust vanished. She melted into the darkness, waiting for the right moment to assault their minds again. Silence fell instantly. Only Oliver’s heavy breathing could be heard, along with the crunch of Claire’s boots stepping over broken glass on the floor. Claire extended her hand to help Oliver up. “Get up, Boss. Don’t sleep

The silence in the Rest Area felt different this time. After the First Round, the atmosphere had been tense because of overflowing adrenaline. Now the atmosphere was dead. It felt like a rotting corpse had been hidden beneath an expensive carpet, and everyone was pretending they could not smell it. Oliver sat on a red velvet sofa, a glass of whiskey in his right hand. He was not drinking it. He simply watched the ice cubes slowly melt, forming a quiet swirl of water inside the glass. Across the room, Throg was snoring loudly on the floor. The orc was physically exhausted. His new armor looked dented in several places, but he smiled in his sleep. Maybe he was dreaming about Griz. And Claire... Claire was asleep on the long couch near a fake window displaying a digital tropical beach. She was curled up, hugging her tactical waist pouch tightly like a body pillow. Her face looked peaceful. Innocent. There was no trace of the cold killer who had shot a Dark Elf in the head and pun

The wind on that frozen plain did not just blow. It bit. It felt like thousands of tiny piranhas tearing at any skin left uncovered. Oliver stood behind a mound of snow, his body wrapped only in a thin shirt and a torn suit jacket. His thick winter coat, the only reasonable defense against the minus forty degree temperature, was now on Claire. “You sure this is going to work?” Claire asked. Her voice trembled, white vapor escaping her mouth every time she spoke. She pulled Oliver’s jacket tighter around herself, trying to absorb whatever warmth still lingered in the fabric. “We’re going to kill a Sleeping God with a chunk of ice?” “Not a chunk of ice,” Oliver corrected. His teeth chattered so violently it felt like they might shatter. “We’re using gravity. That ice spike up there weighs thousands of tons. If it falls at the right angle, the momentum will be enough to separate his head from his body.” Oliver pointed at the massive ice cliff hanging directly above Sloth’s sleepi