Jack stood atop a mountain of corpses, Oscar held loosely in his right hand as blood dripped from the blade's edge in steady rhythmic drops.
The bodies beneath his boots shifted slightly as he adjusted his weight, creating small cascades of cooling flesh and shattered bone that tumbled down the pile like a macabre avalanche.
Two hundred ninety-seven minotaurs.
The entire population of Floor Twenty-Three's wasteland territory was systematically hunted down and executed over the course of an hour.
Jack's demon army had herded them like cattle, driving the creatures toward predetermined kill zones where Jack waited with Oscar and an endless patience for slaughter.
The last survivor, the Alpha, lay at the base of the corpse pile, both arms severed at the shoulders.
The massive creature's breathing came in ragged gasps, blood pooling beneath its body in quantities that should have killed it already.
