The Bloodstone Brute had been designed by nature, dungeon pressure, and bad educational policy.
Sixteen feet of red-plated muscle crowded the corridor. Its arms were too long, its shoulders too wide, and its horned skull dragged sparks from the ceiling whenever it lowered its head. A broken academy control collar hung around its neck, blinking red with every breath. Aether Leeches clung beneath its armor plates like pale tumors.
In the game, a Bloodstone Brute was an E-rank boss for second visits to Floor Ten.
Team Seven stood below Floor Eight without extraction, with one broken scanner, one suppressed hero, one furious commoner, one restrained saintess, one listening nature mage, one newly plot-relevant background student, and me.
A shattered F-rank villain wearing gloves that smelled like cooked leather.
Wonderful odds.
Terrible genre awareness.
