The portal swallowed me whole, the world stretching and twisting until I crashed onto ground that wasn’t ground at all—instead it was flat, grainy, and endlessly looping like an old film reel. The world had been completely drained of color. Every tree, rock, flower, and cloud was rendered in various shades of monochromic gray. Hell, even my own hands resembled ink sketches, fingers jerking like stop-motion puppets caught between frames.

  In the distance shimmered a vibrantly colored portal—a rippling oval that connected back to the throne room.

  But I wasn’t alone.

  Between me and the exit loomed a massive centaur with the lower body of a bull and the upper body of Popeye the Sailor—his arms knotted with ropey muscle, one eye squinting, the other bulging comically like he was jacked to the gills on lab-grade cocaine. He pawed at the ground and puffed at the corncob pipe jutting from the side of his mouth, concentric rings of smoke drifting upward.

  Dweller 0.990351D – Popeye the Centaur Man [Level 51]

  A brawler ripped straight out of an ol’ timey movie reel, Popeye the Centaur Man fights with the stubborn relentlessness of a dockside drunk and the improbable physics of a Saturday morning cartoon character.

  Due to the power of Toon Force, Popeye can absorb even the most damaging blows like they’re friendly love taps before answering with fists that shatter bone and hooves that can shred steel. If you’re unlucky enough to square up with him alone, you’re already fucked with a capital F—and the fight only ends when one of you is lying dead on the floor.

  And, if cartoons have taught us anything, it’s that Popeye is not in the business of losing to scrawny-armed chucklefucks like you.

  The landscape around Popeye writhed with impossible life. Trees bending too far to leer at me with wide mouths, flowers turning their inky heads, staring at me with impossibly large eyes, their leaves rustling in quiet laughter. The centaur sailor flexed, pipe bobbing at the corner of his mouth, and his voice rolled across the cartoon forest in warped, warbling tones.

  “Wuh-wuh-well blow me down… looks like fresh meat fer the funny pages.”

  The centaur lowered his head and charged. The ground stretched and bounced beneath him, every hoofbeat punctuated by cymbal crashes and honking horns. His forearms swelled grotesquely, spinning like windup toys until they blurred.

  I tightened my grip on my hammer. Even here, in cartoon hell, the weapon still felt real—solid, heavy, and strangely reassuring.

  “I don’t have any spinach for you,” I taunted, preparing to strike, “but I have a whole bag of dicks you can choke on!”

  He answered with a whistle-shriek and lunged.

  Popeye swung, the blow carrying the force of a runaway steam engine. Some primal alarm bell shrieked in the back of my skull and I dodged right, bringing the hammer up in a brutal arc that slammed into his ribs. The impact cracked like a gunshot and should’ve folded the son of a bitch in half, but instead his torso stretched like an accordion before bouncing back into place with a rubbery twang.

  “Tha’ all ya got, chum?” Popeye slurred, a fist the size of an anchor shooting forward like a piston.

  The jab caught me in the chest, knocking the wind from my lungs as I flew backward and collided into a nearby tree. Black crept along the edges of my vision as thick roots wrapped around my stomach, pinning me in place.

  Popeye was winding up for another charge and if I didn’t get clear of the tree, he was going to turn me into a cartoon pancake. With a thought, I activated Neural Slipstream and phased through the binding roots, scrambling back to my feet as Popeye raced toward me in slow motion.

  I raised one hand and triggered Hydro Fracking Blast.

  The jet of water ripped through his chest, spraying inky gore across the monochrome flowers. For a heartbeat his body split in two, halves flapping like ripped Play-Doh before melting back together with the rubbery flexibility of a Gumby doll.

  “Gross,” I spat, before activating Frostfang Spire directly beneath Popeye’s hooves. Spears of glimmering ice erupted from the ground, skewering him through the legs and belly. He bellowed, thrashing wildly, but I was already circling, hammer raised.

  “Now let’s see how funny you are without knees, asshole,” I growled, darting forward as I drove my hammer down on his front leg and triggered Gavel of Get Fucked. Popeye’s foreleg shattered and his pipe spun from his mouth, tumbling end over end.

  He staggered, teetering on three legs as my Spectral Form fizzled out and I snapped back into flesh and bone. “Olive Oyl hits harder than that, you little bitch!” he barked, spittle flying. “If that’s all ya got, you’re nothin’ but chum for the grinder, agagaga!”

  Then, before I could react, his massive fist shot across the clearing like it was attached to an extending boxing glove, slamming into my mouth and knocking one of my teeth loose. The world blinked white, and a sharp ringing filled my ears. I stumbled backward, disoriented, but a root reached out and shoved me forward toward the centaur.

  I spat out a glob of phlegmy blood and wiped my chin with the back of one hand.

  “I’m just getting warmed up, dickweed.”

  Clearly this fucker was tough, and my normal arsenal of spells just wasn’t cutting it. Thanks to his Toon Force abilities, he was almost invulnerable to slashing and piercing damage, but there was one thing I hadn’t tried yet. Using the ambient moisture splattered across the ground, I summoned manacles of ice to slow him down while I quickly swapped Echoed Aura for Internal Microwave Cannon.

  This was the first time I’d ever used the Relic, but I’d microwaved plenty of action figures as a kid just for shits and giggles, so I knew how this should go.

  Popeye broke free from the icy restraints, but I instantly reached out with threads of Psychic Sovereignty and lifted him into the air.

  Well, I tried to, anyways.

  It felt like trying to deadlift an Abrams tank. Between his weight and Grit, it was almost more than I could manage. Sweat rolled down my face, but I kept pushing until his hooves slowly rose into the air.

  Then, while he was hanging there, vulnerable and flailing, I raised one hand and activated the Microwave Cannon. Rings of silvery light rippled outward from my palm, sinking harmlessly into Popeye’s chest without doing any visible damage at all. No burns. No explosions. Just Popeye thrashing and laughing through clenched teeth.

  I frowned and glanced at my upraised hand. What a fucking rip-off.

  But just as I was about to give up and try something else, I saw his Health bar start to slide down.

  A few seconds later, his skin began to bulge and ripple, flesh swelling unevenly, bubbling like a hotdog left too long in the microwave. Veins popped, joints stretched to grotesque proportions, and his rubbery torso squealed under the pressure—steam venting out of his eyes and mouth.

  Then, all at once, his body exploded in a geyser of black and white gore.

  A ring of shredded skin and pulverized organs sprayed outward in all directions, splattering across the leering trees and grinning flowers. Chunks of meat slapped wetly against the ground, dripping and twitching like they hadn’t realized they were dead yet. The air filled with the stench of scorched ink and cooked fat, thick enough to make me gag.

  I cut the spell off and grimaced in distaste.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Turned out the Relic worked exactly as advertised, but watching it in action made me question every life choice that had brought me here. It was powerful, no doubt—but the kind of power that left you feeling queasy afterward. Excessive was the only word that fit, even if it got the job done. If I actually made it out of this clusterfuck alive, I was going to have to think long and hard about whether I wanted to keep it. Because that kill was definitely going straight onto the nightmare reel.

  But that was a problem for Future me. Assuming there was a Future me.

  I pulled out a Zima and slammed the entire thing as I sprinted for the portal.

  The instant I dove through the rippling surface, color slammed back into my vision and my feet hit cracked marble as the throne room snapped back into focus.

  Everything had devolved into pure chaos.

  The chamber was a slaughterhouse covered in shards of stained glass and swathed in corporate banners. The floor was littered with mangled Horrors, twitching limbs clawing at nothing as inky tendrils dragged my minions back into black tar pools. The mosaic of Steamboat Willie had been ground to gravel under the hydra’s bulk, each fractured tile spattered with blood, grease, or both.

  Temperance and Croc had both managed to climb onto the hydra’s back along with several of my Horrors, who were hacking away with claws, fangs, and improvised weapons. Jakob continued to draw aggro—battling the hydra and shield bashing the ever-living shit out of the flying monkeys—while Harper hovered above him, wings twitching with exhaustion as she spammed heals to help offset the damage he was soaking up like a sponge.

  It was a losing battle, though, and I wasn’t sure how much longer Jakob could endure the punishment. Hell, I wasn’t sure any of my friends were long for this world.

  Temperance was covered in burns and gashes, her skintight fursuit little more than bloody rags. And Croc wasn’t doing much better. The mimic was missing more than a few limbs, and blood oozed down its chest and legs. Both of them looked like they’d gone three rounds with a sentient flamethrower and were only still moving through sheer spite.

  Overhead, monkeys still wheeled and spun, diving to slash with machetes or lob their shit-bombs into the unfolding carnage.

  But the hydra had suffered injuries as well.

  Temp had managed to decapitate the Harpy during my brief absence, her gaunt head lying lifeless on the floor, inky blood spurting from the jagged stump.

  Temp was also making good progress on Captain Marvelous, carving deep trenches between scales with grim, methodical fury. Meanwhile, Croc was wrapped around Snow White’s neck, clinging on for dear life like an overgrown tick, tentacles jammed into a series of open wounds as the mimic tried to tear the head apart from the inside.

  Even though they were doing an admirable job, the hydra was still above forty percent Health, and even down a head, I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to beat this thing. Two-thirds of my Horrors were already pulverized meat—Uncle Sam had been cut in two by a laser blast and Synthia had been shredded by feral forest critters—and everyone else was hanging on by a tenuous thread.

  I needed to find a way to keep this battle from dragging on any longer than it already had.

  And as I surveyed the carnage, a rough idea began to take shape in my mind.

  The throne room itself had been badly damaged during the brawl—craters everywhere, glass shards crunching underfoot, the dome overhead sagging like a cracked egg. One of the dwarven pillars had already been reduced to rubble by Captain Marvelous’s eye-beam party trick, and the other columns were feeling the added strain, cracks zigzagging across their surfaces, hunks of stony rubble collecting at their bases.

  What if I brought the whole place right down on the hydra? There was no way anything could survive that, not even this corporate assclown.

  Was my plan reckless? Sure. Suicidal? Absolutely. But if we couldn’t kill the hydra straight up, maybe I could make the Backrooms do my bitch work instead.

  Mind made up, I triggered Neural Slipstream, and the world shuddered into slow motion. Monkeys flapped as though they were swimming through molasses. Blood droplets hung in the air like rubies. Howls stretched into distorted screeches.

  In that endless breath, I slipped into thought form and went on a shopping spree.

  I cracked open my Spatial Storage and started yanking out supplies like a madman prepping for Armageddon. At the tippy top of my list was all the shit I’d looted from the Sunnyside Pyro Emporium: sticks of dynamite, Mana-fueled shape charges, a handful of magical claymores. A fat roll of duct tape came next, followed by all the Balloon Menagerie spell cards I had left—because why the hell not?

  Go big or die trying, I always said.

  My hands moved on autopilot. Dynamite here, shape charge there, claymore pointed inward. Duct tape wrapped it all together in a neat bundle of destructive firepower until I had six improvised bombs that looked like something Wile E. Coyote would buy from an Acme catalog. Each one was primed with a trio of Balloon Menagerie Cards, ready to pop the second I said the activation phrase.

  My Thought Form wavered, then snapped, and time kicked back to full speed with a concussive rush of sound.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Clutching the bundles under each arm, I shot upward, flying in a tight spiral, faster and faster, building momentum until the air crackled around me. Psychic Sovereignty’s capstone ability, Monarch of Momentum, allowed me to continually accelerate anything I lifted with the spell—there was no reason that couldn’t include me. With each pass, I built up more speed, all while using telekinetic threads to place the improvised bombs at the base of each pillar.

  As I looped past Harper, I dug the Super Slammer of Shielding from my tool belt and tossed it down. She caught it with both hands, confusion flashing across her face.

  “Trust me!” I barked before zipping by, not slowing for even a second.

  I couldn’t afford to stop and explain my plan, so instead I pulled out the Etheric Walkie Talkie. Static fizzled as I thumbed the talk button, my voice carrying to each of my allies.

  “I’ve got an insane idea,” I shouted, “but for it to work, I need everyone to retreat to the far side of the throne room. Do it now and take cover. Harper knows what to do—and make sure someone grabs Pooh. I don’t want him getting killed when the shit hits the fan. And trust me, this shit is gonna be Old Testament Biblical. Like Samson crushing the Philistines.”

  “Are you sure about this, Dan?” Croc said, his voice squawking over the radio. “Because this sounds dangerous.”

  “So is fighting a bloodthirsty hydra,” I replied. “But you’re just gonna have to trust me, bud.”

  There was a long pause, before the radio chirped again. “Okay, Dan,” Croc said. “Just be careful, please? If anything happened to you… Well, no one else will watch Twilight movies with me.”

  I watched from above as my allies leaped from the hydra and sprinted toward the double doors on the far side of the room. I left a few of my more disposable Horrors behind as sacrificial lambs to distract the hydra, though I banished my remaining Necromarshals from the battlefield. I’d already lost Synthia and Uncle Sam, and though I could rebuild them, it was going to be a colossal pain in the ass.

  My last batch of Dopplebangers had already vanished, and I was going to need coverage for what came next, so I used my remaining cards to summon fifteen more clones, praying that would be enough. Then, with barely a second to breathe, I cast Hydro Fracking Blast and bent it with Hydrokinesis, shaping the torrent of water into crude armor that clung to me in plates of ice.

  As soon as the others were safely away from the Hydra, Harper popped the Super Slammer of Shielding, summoning the arcane dome, which would hopefully insulate them from the worst of what was to come.

  And now it was go time.

  All six bombs were planted, my friends were in the clear, and my momentum was reaching ridiculous speeds. It was now or never.

  I bared my teeth in a snarl, blood roaring in my ears as I tucked my arms and legs in tight, then hurled myself at the first pillar like a human ballistic missile.

  A second before impact, I triggered the first bomb.

  It erupted in a blinding flash of golden light, and the heat of a newborn sun flash fried my skin. The blast tore through the pillar, cracks crawling across the stone, and then I hit like a wrecking ball wrapped in meat and ice. Chunks of stone exploded outward as I punched a hole straight through the column.

  The Dopplebangers absorbed the damage from the inferno blast, and the layer of ice surrounding my body dampened the intense pain, but didn’t stop it completely. It still clawed at me like a million fire ants. My nerves shrieked in protest, and I could feel my bones attempting to liquify. The sheer force of the impact should’ve turned me into jelly, but thanks to my new Death from Above title, all impact damage was reduced by 90% whenever I decided to use my body as a projectile weapon.

  Like now.

  I slammed into the next pillar, my momentum propelling me forward. Another detonation. Another eruption of searing light and flame. Another moment of raw, screaming agony as I blasted through, coughing ash and struggling to see straight.

  Third. Fourth. Fifth.

  Each time, another bomb went off, another pillar fell, and another piece of the cathedral’s skeletal dome gave up the ghost. By the time I smashed through the sixth and final pillar, I wasn’t sure if I was still me or just a screaming torch wearing my skin.

  Above, the ceiling groaned like a dying god.

  Then, in a rush, it came tumbling down all at once.

  Twenty tons of cracked dome and rusted iron collapsed in a single apocalyptic crash, pillars snapping, rafters breaking like brittle bones. The hydra roared in fury as the mountain of rubble dropped on top of it, bludgeoning it to death in an avalanche of concrete, marble, and reinforced steel.

  At the last instant, I triggered Neural Slipstream, slipping into intangibility as the cathedral fell. Rubble passed harmlessly through me in syrupy slow motion while dust erupted in a choking plume. The air turned hot and suffocating, and shattered banners and shards of stained glass fluttered around me.

  I rose through the wreckage, then solidified on top of the mound.

  My legs wobbled, my body trembling like overcooked noodles. Even with the help from the clones and my titles, my Health was at a measly 22%. And I felt like someone had doused me with napalm then run over me with a garbage truck. Several times.

  But I was still standing. Though not for long.

  My knees buckled. I sagged forward onto the cracked stone, head hanging in exhaustion.

  We’d done it. Defeated an impossible boss, swinging well above our weight class.

  But there was a worrying fact still wriggling in the back of my mind.

  Why hadn’t I received any experience? Or a Researcher Achievement? Hell, I didn’t have a single prompt celebrating my victory.

  “Shit,” I mumbled as the rubble shifted beneath me, stone grinding against stone.

  Then, with a spray of debris, Steamboat Willie’s cartoon head shoved its way free like a weed working its way through the cracks in a concrete slab.