What do you seek in a leader? Bravery? Strength? Dignity? A reassuring ability to look good in a crown?
Grimy Garth had, at one time, been quite certain he possessed all the necessary qualifications to be a high-class Dungeon Boss—a veritable Sewer—side Kingpin, if you may. He had the cunning, the muscle, and, most importantly, a keen understanding of just how much one could skim off the top before the minions started grumbling about "workers’ rights" and "liveable conditions."
All of that, of course, was before the flailing madwoman entered his domain. At every point after that, he began to wonder—rapidly and with increasing concern—if answering the Dungeon Core’s polite but insistent request to reclaim its stolen loot had been, perhaps, a tactical misstep.
Wealth, after all, was of little use if it merely served to attract agents of chaos, doom, and unprovoked property damage to one’s doorstep.
***
Grimy Garth barely had time to throw himself out of the way as a set of claws—attached, most distressingly, to a pair of overly enthusiastic arms—ripped through the space his head had so recently occupied. Any slower, and he would have lost crucial inches of his already tenuous dignity.
Still, the notification was there:
-2 HP
As he skidded across the damp grates, his own clawed fingers tapped out a rapid-fire sequence against the metal—an elegant, practiced rhythm that spoke of experience, ingenuity, and a deep personal investment in not being shredded. The mechanism clicked, gears whirred, and with a theatrical clang, a large section of the floor flipped over, revealing the crocodile-infested waters below.
He let out a wheezing sigh of relief.
Surely, that would be enough to slow her down.
And yet.
Garth had barely begun to reassemble his dignity, rodent heart hammering against his ribs like an irate landlord demanding overdue rent, when a sound—somewhere between a cackle and the delighted shriek—dragged his gaze upward.
The spring mechanism, rather than doing its job of depositing intruders into a world of bitey reptiles, had instead launched her into the air. What were the odds of that? (One in a million, of course, if you cared to do the math. Which meant, given the way Annabell operated, it was bound to happen nine times out of ten.)
Now, the rodent ruler could only watch in horror as she—this ball of feline claws, floppy rabbit ears, and aggressively unhinged pink chaos—soared toward him, laughing.
She was laughing.
Garth, feeling entirely justified in experiencing what one might call an emotional moment, scrambled across the floor on all fours, cape dragging unhelpfully behind him.
“Stop her! Stop her, you rotting bastards!” he squealed, hurtling past several half-dazed zombies who had just dropped from the ceiling like stunt doubles who hadn’t realized they were working.
The zombies, out of long habit rather than enthusiasm, obeyed.
With the begrudging slowness of overworked mobs that were not paid nearly enough, they shambled forward, groaning.
Good. That should at least buy me the time to—
Garth made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder.
The deranged girl had, for some inexplicable reason, turned her flying attack into a series of cartwheels. Cartwheels. Right toward the incoming zombies.
Was she even taking this seriously?
Surely she—
And then, something inexplicable happened.
A mere, untrained observer—some poor, rational soul who still believed in a universe that made sense—might have thought she simply slipped. That she had hit a stray puddle of something best left unidentified and flipped her entire cartwheel into an ungainly tumble.
But Grimy Garth saw the truth.
With a level of execution that would have left physicists gaping in awe, his Grim Reaper shifted—mid-cartwheel—into a new axis of rotation. Suddenly, impossibly, she was spinning horizontally. Like a throwing star of pure, unfiltered lunacy, feline claws extended, she tore through nearly a dozen zombie legs as though they were little more than decorative props caught in a lawnmower’s path.
A spray of blood. A symphony of agonized groans. The thud-thud-thud of zombies collapsing like underwhelming bowling pins. A single rotten toe that bounced right off Garth’s snout.
-1 HP
And then—still infused with an elegance that suggested she had planned this all along—the girl landed in a perfect, sliding halt.
From beneath the shadowed pink of her bunny-eared hoodie, the manic, excited eyes of Death itself found Grimy Garth.
There are many ways to scream. A shriek of terror. A bellow of defiance. A cry of despair.
Grimy Garth opted for all of them at once, while also weeping openly as he bolted into his second—entirely justified—retreat.
"Stop her, you fools!" he wailed, directing his rodent subjects into action. "Stop her!"
Why was his brave, battle-hardened vanguard getting distracted by a dang plushie?
This did not make sense.
None of this made any sense.
Just as it made no sense how his fearless first line of defense, his noble army of vermin freed from their meaningless battle with a stuffed toy, was repurposed into an impromptu sporting event the moment they charged toward the Gremlin invader.
One of the unfortunate projectiles—a rat caught by the invader’s boot, suddenly experiencing its first and final attempt at unpowered flight—collided directly with the back of Garth’s neck.
-3 HP
This time, his dwindling health bar was accompanied by a second message:
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Threshold Reached:
Health < 50%
Restrictions Lifted:
Battle Able to Enter Phase Two!
"Yes, yes!"
Even face down against the slick metal grates—having greeted it a bit too intimately after the unexpected attack—Garth’s sobbing squeals transformed into cries of triumph.
Up until now, the rodent king had been holding back. Not out of mercy—mercy was for people who could afford it—but because the Dungeon’s rules had bound him.
But now? Now the gloves were off. Now he was free to unleash his full power.
“To me, my subjects!” he yelled out, staggering to his feet.
Without hesitation, every last undead rodent still capable of movement snapped to attention and swarmed toward their king.
For anyone who had taken a moment to consult the Delvers' Manual Volume 1—the standard-issue guide handed out to all fresh-faced adventurers (even those who chose to ignore how it had just appeared on their System interface)—this was deeply concerning. Especially if they had paid attention to a certain passage in the section titled How Not To Die Horribly In A Dungeon; a small but crucial footnote that read:
"If engaging a summoner-type boss, always eliminate their minions before triggering Phase Two. Otherwise, results may vary…"
***
Meanwhile, in the Dungeon’s more abstract—yet deeply attentive—metaphysical space—
The Dungeon Core was having a moment.
"She has one HP, you fool!" it wailed, its voice echoing in the unseen ether of Dungeon bureaucracy. "Just bite her! Swipe at her! Send your rats on her!"
But, alas, Grimy Garth had no way of hearing this.
So, the Core was forced to watch in helpless, nail-biting anticipation (metaphorically speaking, of course. Dungeon Cores, traditionally, lack fingernails) as its once-formidable rat king underwent his grand transformation.
The swarm of undead vermin that had, only moments ago, been nipping at the intruder’s heels (applying the kind of pressure usually recommended for dealing with low-health Delvers) suddenly shifted direction, abandoning their assault to rush toward their ruler instead.
The Core, if it had possessed a forehead, would have been slamming it against the nearest available surface.
Now, instead of simply ending this insolent Delver that had found herself at their doorstep—making quite a mess of it—the vermin vanished under their king’s cloak as if sucked into a black hole made of malevolence and questionable hygiene.
With every rat absorbed, Garth grew larger, more muscular, and, critically, more difficult to deal with. His snout elongated, his claws sharpened, and his hunched form broadened into something even more unnerving than before, which was impressive, considering that before had already been quite unnerving indeed.
The Core let out a quivering sigh of relief.
Never mind. This was fine, too.
This was the moment—the infamous “Boss Entering Phase Two” transformation. The moment when all seasoned adventurers pause, watching with bated breath as the boss reaches its ultimate form, because to interrupt such a sacred event would be deeply unfair and—
***
Annabell was already running.
Was it a lacking understanding of social etiquette that made her disregard one of the System’s most sacred rules? Was it her complete absence of strategic patience that made her charge straight into obvious danger?
No, Annabell’s eyes had simply failed to notice Garth’s transformation in the first place.
Her attention was, as it had been from the start, locked onto the grubby pillowcase strung around his neck, filled with loot that was, in her entirely subjective and deeply self-serving opinion, rightfully hers.
So, as Garth swelled and dark energies crackled ominously, Annabell did what came naturally: she launched herself at him, grabbed the loot bag, and began yanking at it. Hard.
“GIVE. IT. BACK!”
Garth let out a strangled squeak, eyes bulging wide.
Never in his wildest imaginations had the rodent ruler anticipated that his sacred Transformation Sequence—his long-awaited Transformation Sequence; the kind of sequence young Dungeon menaces dream of from the day the first learn to walk—would include being strangled by an overenthusiastic Gremlin using his own loot sack as a garrote. But, alas, here he was.
And once the metaphysical wheels are in motion, stopping is not an option.
“Ch-cheater!” he squealed, clawing at the tightening noose as he, with great difficulty, continued growing. “You… you can’t… STOP IT!”
Annabell, for her part, did not stop.
Braced with a foot against the rat king’s hunched neck, she kept pulling with the singular focus of someone battling a most stubborn jar of pickles.
So, while Grimy Garth’s body expanded in grotesque, boss-worthy fashion—muscles bulging, claws lengthening, tail whipping around like a ribbon dancer with oxygen problems—Annabell remained entirely focused on The Bag.
The Bag, which, in her mind, was not Grimy Garth’s loot bag.
Not a contested treasure of the dungeon.
Not even an object attached to a creature currently undergoing a horrifying eldritch transformation.
It was simply hers.
So, of course, when faced with an increasingly massive, increasingly monstrous, increasingly wheezing rat king, her course of action was obvious. She doubled down.
With another foot on Garth’s neck, she pulled like one might pull at a Sword of Legends that’s gotten stuck in a cursed stone—tugging, twisting, putting her whole back into it.
Futile, perhaps. Dungeon logic states that strangling a boss to death is nearly impossible. It is an act of such brute-force defiance that the System itself scoffs at the idea. To succeed, one would need an utterly reckless number of points put into Might, and even then—
"Shiny Acquisition!" Annabell yelled between increasingly frantic yanks.
—Yes, exactly. You would probably need to use some sort of specialized, active skill as well.
A glistening teardrop rolled down Grimy Garth’s cheek as the force around his neck intensified at worrying rates.
His swelling muscles were, in real-time, making the garrote tighter.
His attempts to claw her away were met with an entirely unreasonable level of tenacity.
Yet the worst part—the part that truly, deeply wounded him on a personal level—was that she wasn’t even fighting him properly.
She wasn’t respecting the process.
Dungeon bosses were supposed to be awe-inspiring. They were supposed to enter their second phase in a blaze of intimidating spectacle. This was supposed to be Garth’s moment. The moment he’d dreamed of since he was a wee little rat-lad.
And yet, here he was. Choking on his own villainous grandeur.
With both feet braced against the back of Grimy Garth’s increasingly swollen, increasingly distressed, increasingly not in control of the situation neck, Annabell’s grip on her loot was absolute. And, as her skill Shiny Acquisition engaged in an act of sheer, brute-force persuasion—pulling the loot toward her like an industrial magnet—there was precisely zero thought in her mind regarding consequences.
Consequences such as:
- What happens if the rat king’s transformation completes and I am still, technically speaking, clinging to his throat with 1 HP?
- What happens if my bag of loot actually does come loose, and I find myself abruptly detached from all stable surfaces?
As it turned out, the answer to both of these questions arrived in the form of a deeply unsettling, profoundly squelchy noise—one that could best be described as oversized, undead rat king’s head detaching from its body due to extreme and unforeseen loot-based pressure.
Grimy Garth’s transformation did, in fact, complete.
It just didn’t include his head.
Annabell, having fully committed to acquiring her shinies with all the foresight of a child yanking the tablecloth from under a set dinner table, found herself suddenly subject to the laws of gravity.
She was not prepared for this.
Nor was she prepared for the subsequent rain of thick, oozing, undead filth as Grimy Garth, now thoroughly and somewhat anti-climactically slain, collapsed into an expanding pool of expired boss-monster.
Nor was she particularly interested in the series of increasingly ominous messages that flickered across her vision, all of which were promptly dismissed with the reflexive efficiency of someone clearing pop-up ads.
After all, she had her loot.
And, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t that what really mattered?
Tier 1 Dungeon Boss Defeated!
Achievement Unlocked!
First Major Instance Conquered: Fair play? Foul play? The winner takes it all, baby!
(+25 XP)
Achievement Unlocked!
Defeat Dungeon Boss Before Transformation: Now that’s some big damage!
(+15 XP)
Loot Acquired:
- 1 Pillowcase of Loot (Said to have once belonged to some petty individual…)
- 1 Rat-King’s Brooch (Oh, Shiny! Really, though. This one is quite valuable. You should be careful with it.)
- 1 Bag of Boss-slaying Goodies (To ensure all Delvers stay motivated!)
Warning!
XP Threshold Reached: Further…
At this point, Annabell was already halfway through sifting through her precious pillowcase, making delighted little noises as she uncovered shinies, trinkets, and what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich of deeply questionable origin. Had she put it there? She couldn’t even remember.
The messages flickered insistently. Some of them even blinked in an urgent red.
Behind her, the remains of Grimy Garth twitched in that peculiar, postmortem way that suggested some part of him still hadn’t quite caught up to the idea of being dead.
Somewhere in the Dungeon’s unseen, cosmic back-end, the Core was metaphorically staring into the void, contemplating the precise sequence of life choices that had led to this moment.
And far above, somewhere in the unfathomable reaches of the multiversal network, the System itself realized it might have to intervene. Even Gremlin shenanigans must know their limit.
Warning! Foul Play Detected:
Transformation scenes and villainous monologues are supposed to be sacred, you know?
Warning! Tier 3 Dungeon Restrictions Currently Being Lifted…