As Marcus and Cynthia stepped into the final chamber of the dungeon, they were met with a surprise.
The boss was already dead.
And sitting lazily atop its motionless corpse—
The massive, battle-scarred body of a manticore, limbs sprawled unnaturally, its spiked tail snapped at the base and wings folded in eternal stillness—
The manticore's body still radiated faint heat, steam curling off the blood-caked mane where Trearch lounged. Its fur shimmered with residual enchantments—barrier runes now fractured and leaking dim blue light. Whatever killed it hadn't just overwhelmed it physically—it had erased its will to fight.
Was Trearch, reclined on a cushion of the beast's blood-matted mane, dozing as if he'd just finished a light afternoon nap.
Marcus crossed his arms, watching Trearch with narrowed eyes. The man moved like this was all routine, like slaying apex monsters was no more stressful than grading papers.
