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... floor was a joke. John couldn’t stretch that enough. A real. Giant. Joke. Floor five, breezed through; floor six, decimated; seven, annihilated; eight, obliterated; nine, massacred. John had almost felt bad for the Cupids they were taking out, small little angels with cute wings and bows that shot pink arrows. Their appearance deserved to cover the front of a valentine’s card, not to be impaled by a bolt from Mono’s Lesser Lance of Longinus or by the metal projectiles Lydia used.
That w ...
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