“Well,” he said quietly, humour thinning into focus, “that’s just rude.”
The Southern Rocklobster King didn’t answer with a roar or a charge. It lifted one claw higher and made a slow, deliberate motion with the other. The baton in its grip caught the dungeon’s thin light as it tipped forward, then down, then tapped once against its own shell with a neat little click. The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried through the chamber in a way that made Ray’s skin prickle.
The crabs moved with purpose instead of panic. Stoneclaws stepped in first while skitterbacks slid low along the floor grooves, pincers held the way Ray had come to hate, and the rustshells stayed behind them like a wall waiting for its turn. It formed a living curtain between him and the mound, and the King stayed right where it was, claw lifted steady, crown sitting crooked as if it had been glued on by an idiot who’d then decided that counted as governance.
Ray stared at the baton for a heartbeat too long. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “You’re conducting.”
The first stoneclaw lunged for his boot. Ray met it with a short step instead of giving ground, tagged the inner leg joint, and drove his other dagger under the shell seam before it could recover. The crab dropped with a wet clack. The skitterback behind it tried to use the fall as cover, darting for Ray’s ankle while his weight was still shifting.
Ray hopped back on instinct, felt the groove in the floor catch his heel, and swore as his balance wobbled for half a beat.
The King tapped the baton twice.
Two crabs surged in from the sides, timed to the moment Ray’s foot touched down. It wasn’t clever in a human way, but it was coordinated, and Ray could feel the intent behind it. The room wanted him in the grooves. The crabs wanted his hands and feet. The lobster wanted him away from the mound and out of position.
“Yeah, nah,” he breathed, and pushed forward.
He cut right instead of back, forcing his way toward the flank where the stoneclaws were thicker. A skitterback tried to clip his knee and Ray turned his shin into the hit, taking the thump on bone instead of letting it take his leg out. Pain flashed sharp and immediate, but his footing held. He stabbed down through the skitterback’s upper joint, felt the blade bite, then twisted and yanked free in time to parry a pincer swipe aimed at his dagger hand.
The crab’s grab scraped his knuckles. Not deep, but enough that it stung and made his grip tighten hard.
The King did a tiny sideways shuffle on the mound, crown wobbling with the movement, and tapped the baton again as if it was pleased with itself.
Ray blinked. “Did you just… do a little victory step?”
Another wave rolled forward, tighter this time. There weren’t more bodies, just better spacing. Rustshells angled in behind the stoneclaws, shells presented like moving shields, while the skitterbacks stayed low and patient, waiting for Ray to overcommit. It was the same lesson as the corridor, just with more smugness and a hat.
Ray tried to take space anyway. He stepped in and went for an exposed rear joint on the nearest rustshell, but the moment his blade went forward a stoneclaw snapped for his wrist. Ray turned the stab into a hook instead, dragged the dagger edge across shell with a scrape that made his teeth grind, and jerked his arm back before the pincer could clamp properly. The second stoneclaw lunged immediately, trying to punish the retreat, and Ray felt the room closing around him like it had teeth.
He forced himself to keep moving in small angles instead of big ones. Wide swings were wasted here. Sprinting backwards was a trap. The grooves in the floor punished carelessness, and the crab line punished impatience, and the King did little shuffles from the mound like it was auditioning for the world’s worst parade.
A pincer grazed his forearm as he turned, leaving a shallow cut that lit his nerves. Ray stepped into the crab’s space before the sting could become panic, stabbed under the seam, and used the body as a temporary block so the next rush tangled over shell and legs instead of finding his ribs.
The baton clicked again.
The baton traced a small circle in the air, then tapped once. The nearest crabs didn’t rush. They slid, careful and annoying, spreading wide as if they’d rehearsed it. Ray felt the space around him change, the air thinning on one side while bodies thickened on the other, and the moment he stepped to counter it a skitterback snapped low for his heel, timed perfectly with the shift. Ray yanked his foot free, boot scraping stone, caught himself on the edge of a groove, and immediately heard the hiss of shell against stone as a stoneclaw came in high for his wrist.
He met it with steel. His dagger rang off shell with a sharp scrape that sent vibration up his forearm. He twisted, punched the tip under the seam, and the crab shrieked as he tore the blade free, shell cracking wetly around the entry point.
The King tapped twice in quick rhythm. Ray’s head snapped up in time to see the baton angle left, then down, like a conductor calling a section to come in. The crabs answered immediately. The front line tightened and the flanks drifted, and Ray’s mouth went dry as he realised the pattern was consistent. Tap-tap meant pressure, then a low rush. Sure enough, skitterbacks slid in behind the stoneclaws the moment the second tap landed, pincers snapping at ankles and knees to steal balance while the hands were targeted up top.
Ray didn’t wait for the net to close. He triggered Speed Burst.
Mana dropped out of him in a clean, heavy pull, and his body answered with an immediate, sharp clarity. Ray moved fast enough that the crabs’ timing became wrong. He slipped through the narrowing gap before it could become a wall, shoulder brushing shell, feet finding stone between grooves by instinct, and he stabbed twice in a blur of tight motion. One dagger went under-shell and came out red. The second punched into a hinge and wrenched free. Two crabs dropped with wet clacks before the rest of the line understood he’d already changed lanes.
Eleven seconds wasn’t long, but it was enough to steal space back. Ray used it like a tool, driving forward while the crabs were still adjusting to the new centre line. He didn’t chase kills. He chased the only thing that mattered in this room, which was not getting surrounded.
When the burst faded, the weight hit his legs like someone had poured sand into his boots. His lungs tightened. His ribs reminded him they were still bruised. Ray swallowed the urge to slow down, forced his breathing steady, and kept his movement compact so the fatigue didn’t become clumsy.
The baton lifted and paused.
Ray realised, a half-second before it happened, that the pause was the cue. The crabs held their ground just long enough for him to commit, then the pause ended with a single sharp tap and everything surged at once, pincers snapping for his hands in a coordinated grab. Ray swore, dropped his elbows, and let his daggers work in tight arcs close to his body, parrying by inches rather than feet. A pincer caught his sleeve and tore cloth. Another scraped his knuckles. He felt it, ignored it, and focused on the rustshell sliding in behind the stoneclaws like a shield wall that wanted to pin him against the grooves.
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Ray stabbed for a rear joint and felt his steel skid on thicker plating. The crab didn’t flinch. It kept coming, patient and heavy, trying to put him into a groove and keep him there until the smaller ones could do the fine work. Ray braced, ribs complaining as he took the pressure, then shoved off the rustshell with his forearm and used the recoil to pivot sideways, forcing two crabs to collide. Shell cracked against shell. One fell. Ray stepped on it without thinking and drove his dagger under the seam of the other, finishing it with a wet punch that made his stomach twist.
The King did another little shuffle on the mound, crown wobbling, baton flicking through the air in a smug flourish. Ray stared at it for a heartbeat while he breathed, sweat running down his back. “I’m learning your stupid dance,” he muttered. “Keep going. Show me.”
The baton tapped three times, spaced evenly, and Ray felt the room shift again. Three taps meant rotation. The flanks swapped. The skitterbacks changed angle. Ray moved with it instead of fighting it, stepping into the rotation as if he were part of it, slipping through the brief gap that opened when the crabs tried to reposition. A stoneclaw lunged too eager and Ray took its hinge with a short, brutal stab, then kicked the body aside to keep the lane open.
The baton snapped down again, faster now, and Ray’s annoyance turned sharp. He could see it clearly, the way the King pulled the room’s tempo tight whenever Ray started to gain ground. Tap-tap, low rush. Pause, hand-grabs. Three taps, rotation. It wasn’t music. It was control. Ray timed his movement to the pause instead of the surge, stepping forward on the beat that wasn’t there, and when the pincers shot for his hands a fraction late, he was already inside their reach. He drove one dagger under-shell, then used the other to chop a hinge, and the crab dropped with a shriek that cut off as it hit the stone.
Ray’s breathing came harder now, ribs pulling with every inhale, but his eyes were steady. The room still looked ridiculous, a crowned lobster on a mound conducting crab soldiers, but the danger was real enough that the humour sat right on the edge of his teeth.
The King shuffled again, a neat little two-step, and tapped the baton with a crisp snap.
The next rush was different. It wasn’t faster. It was tighter. Two elites stepped in, stoneclaws with cleaner shells and sharper movement, pincers held slightly higher as they angled for Ray’s hands rather than his legs. Ray recognised the stance immediately and felt his shoulders tense. These weren’t here to die. These were here to make him fight empty-handed in front of a boss that had already proven it didn’t need to be fair.
“Right,” Ray breathed. “Royal guard.”
The first elite lunged for his right dagger. Ray shifted his grip without thinking, tucked his elbow closer, and let the pincer close on the handle edge instead of the grip. He used the moment of contact to drive his left dagger into the hinge, but the shell was thicker here, and the blade bit shallow.
The elite didn’t flinch. It yanked.
Ray’s wrist lit with pain. His ribs pulled as his body compensated. The second elite came in at the same time, pincers aimed for his left hand, and Ray’s options narrowed to ugly choices in a very small space.
His Speed Burst was still on cooldown. If he lost a dagger here, the King wouldn’t need a baton to finish him.
Ray triggered Crimson Crescent through one blade only, controlled and sharp, and the edge lit in that familiar dull red. He stepped into the yank, turned his hips, and swept a tight crescent across the elite’s hinge. The red edge bit clean through shell and joint, and the pincer dropped twitching.
The elite collapsed with a wet clack, and Ray ripped his trapped dagger free in the same motion.
The second elite tried to capitalise while his weight shifted. Ray turned on it fast, shoulders tight, and used Crimson Crescent again, compact and brutal, splitting the hinge before it could clamp. The crab shrieked and skittered back dragging a leg that didn’t want to work anymore.
The mana drain hit his forearms like dull lead. Ray felt it settle into his shoulders. He didn’t have time to care.
The King clicked once, deep and harsh, then tapped the baton three times in quick succession.
The room surged.
Not a full wave, but every remaining crab tightened the net, trying to trap Ray in the space he’d just cleared. Rustshells angled to block. Skitterbacks went low. Stoneclaws snapped for wrists again. Ray fought in short bursts, stabbing under seams, chopping hinges, using fallen bodies as obstacles, forcing the crabs to trip over each other instead of him. It was grimy work. No clean duels. No heroic arcs. Just Ray refusing to be boxed into a corner by seafood with a chain of command.
A skitterback clipped his boot at the wrong moment and his heel slid into a groove. His balance went for half a beat and the room tried to take the whole second. A pincer snapped for his forearm. Ray twisted, took the scrape along cloth and skin, and rammed his shoulder into the crab’s shell hard enough that his ribs flared with pain. He stayed upright anyway, gritting his teeth as he stabbed up under the seam and felt the resistance give.
He backed off one step, then another, not retreating, just repositioning, and realised the crabs between him and the mound were finally thinning to scraps. The floor around the mound was littered with shell and legs and wet smears that made the grooves look darker than they should’ve been. Ray’s breathing came in heavier now, but his hands were steady. His grip didn’t shake.
The King’s dance slowed.
It watched him for a long moment, baton lifted, claw poised. Then it did something that made Ray’s stomach drop in the stupidest way possible.
It bowed.
A tiny, ridiculous dip of its armoured body, crown tilting forward, baton held out as if it was acknowledging applause.
Ray stared at it. “You absolute—”
A stoneclaw lunged at his ankle while his attention was stolen, and Ray cursed as the pincer snapped shut on his boot rim. It didn’t take him down, but it yanked hard enough to twist his knee and send pain up his leg. Ray reacted on instinct, drove his dagger into the crab’s hinge, and kicked free with a sharp jerk that made his leg complain.
“Right,” he said, voice tight. “Focus up.”
A flicker appeared in the air as he forced himself to keep moving, body adapting under stress in a way that felt earned rather than gifted.
[For taking a beating… Vitality +1]
Ray didn’t have time to appreciate the quip Arkus had finally thrown in. He just used it. He pushed through the last cluster of crabs, ended the stragglers with short, efficient kills, and stepped into the cleared space in front of the mound with his daggers raised.
For the first time since he’d walked in, there was nothing between him and the Southern Rocklobster King.
The room went quiet.
No rhythmic clicking. No skittering circles. The “court” that was left pulled back to the edges and held still, as if someone had cut the music and everyone was waiting to see what happened next. The King stopped mid-shuffle and rose properly, slow and heavy, plates grinding as it lifted off the mound and set its claws on the stone with a weight that made the floor grooves matter again.
Ray took one careful step forward, eyes locked on the crown, then on the claws, then on the baton.
“You’re done dancing?” he asked, voice low. “Good. My turn.”
The King lifted the baton.
It didn’t tap. It didn’t click.
It flicked.
The baton left its claw in a clean, smooth motion and hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, pointed straight at Ray’s chest as if it had decided that was where it belonged.
Ray froze.
“…No,” he said flatly. “No, you did not just throw your wand at me.”
The baton shot forward.
The baton hit like a spiteful little spear.
Ray twisted anyway, but he’d read the throw wrong. He expected a straight line. Instead it kinked in mid-flight, changing angle with a sharp, unnatural snap as if it had eyes. It clipped his shoulder on the turn and the impact punched deep, not cutting so much as drilling through muscle with a concentrated, stabbing force. Pain flared white-hot and immediate. His dagger arm dropped half a fraction, fingers going numb, and the baton tore free on its own and whipped past his ear close enough that the air stung. Warm blood ran down his upper arm in a fast stream that soaked his sleeve. Ray gritted his teeth hard enough to taste iron and forced his hand back up before the King could capitalise. “Alright,” he hissed. “That’s… new.”
The Southern Rocklobster King moved at last. Not a rush, but a heavy forward surge that ate distance in one step, claws opening with a slow certainty that made Ray’s stomach tighten. The baton circled back like it was on a line, carving a tight arc towards Ray’s ribs while the lobster’s left claw came down to pin. Ray tried to slip the pin and felt his boot catch a groove. He recovered, but not cleanly. The claw clipped him across the torso and slammed him sideways into the scored stone with a crack that stole his breath. His ribs lit up in agony, deep and grinding, and his vision sparkled at the edges. The baton struck again in the same heartbeat, stabbing into his thigh hard enough to make his leg buckle. Ray dropped to one knee, breath coming in harsh, ugly pulls, and the room’s remaining crabs clicked in a rising tempo like they could smell the end.
Ray forced himself upright on pure refusal, dragging air into his lungs and ignoring the way the world tilted. His shoulder throbbed. His thigh burned. His ribs felt wrong. The baton hovered in front of him for a heartbeat, point aimed at his throat like it was deciding whether it could end this right now, and Ray’s eyes flicked to the King’s claw as it lifted for the crush. His Speed Burst cooldown had ticked over somewhere in the chaos. He triggered Speed Burst and felt the mana rip out of him like a hook.
The eleven-second burst hit hard. Ray moved fast enough that the baton stabbed through empty air where his neck had been. He slid under the incoming claw and rolled across the grooves, shoulder scraping stone and leaving a smear of blood where he hit. He came up low, breathing ragged, using the remaining seconds to get distance and a cleaner angle before the room could collapse on him again. By the time the burst ran out, his legs were heavy, his lungs were tight, and he had one ugly truth sitting in his chest alongside the pain.
This boss wasn’t playing conductor anymore. It was trying to kill him properly.
? An administration willing to stop at nothing to drive him out
? Coworkers so jaded they find hazing the new guy more entertaining than actual teaching
? A retention rate that is a body count
Directive two: "teach them to fight"
Personal Moral Imperative three: "every student must survive"
Welcome to Dyntril Academy where survival is graduation.
?Found-family elements
?A strong romance subplot that drives the plot
?School bullying and institutional abuse
?Social stratification in a rigid class-based society
?Battle school tournament arc
?LitRPG elements (no stat sheets)
?Grimbright tone: dark world, bright characters
Monday, Wednesday, Friday
LitRPGRuling ClassMultiple Lead CharactersStrong LeadActionAdventureFantasyRomanceAttractive LeadDystopiaFemale LeadProgressionGameLitMale LeadSchool Life
