Punch after dragonpunch rained down on the hero as he scored, not drugs but critical luck dodges and critical evasion checks. Keeping the storyline safe while further antagonizing the whispered to dragon. Even the dragon's pilot light kept having to get restarted by guzzling down an entire can of lighter fluid whenever it tried to attack. Seeing as how draconic digestion works slightly different from the human kind, this lighter fluid was about as toxic as a gin and tonic would be after a triple divorcee walks out of a lawyer's office. So depending on the rate of inflation and the amount of hidden investments from the father who always gets screwed over in court, somewhere between light gas and extremely male toxicity.

This time, fortunately, the dragon had an offshore account in the Cayman islands and legitimate proof that his official job at evil incorporate earned less than minimum wage over a period of his entire lifetime that the court system considered him a deadbeat dad, emphasis on the beat but without the music. So it wasn't very toxic at all. This narrator would have rapped the previous bit if the implied joke weren't so lame. Which is purely the fault of the author who is typing his life away at 2 in the morning, trying to grade enough papers so the little cunts at school don't all get zero out of a hundred for being born mentally deficient in a time of expected inflation(not the fun kind) and a potential economic collapse. So this narrator can't blame such a sad, sad person.

The hero brings his vibrating will to live, I mean weapon... -ish, to the front and attempts to feebly stab in front of him, knocking off at least a segment of scale away from the semi-huge lizard. Semi not using the American vernacular but indicating a half-stiff member that no church order would ever accept. Maybe try the Freemasons, they get into some really weird shit after all.

The hero fails a dodge but luckily uses his lucky shield which deflects the harrowing punch.

“POINT... MY LIVER. OH GOD, SO MUCH PAIN!”

“Thank you for your noble sacrifice, I'll never euhm... euh... something or other, actually just forget it. Have to focus on the fight.”

The emo dragon brought down his hand of self-cutting and hurt itself in it's confusion. Which is normal for every dragon going through puberty. But puberty at the current dragon's age is just a sad mid-life crisis, but without the ability to buy a Ferrari and show to people that you aren't a sad sack of shit that is waiting for death like any reasonable human being should be by the age of forty.

With the powers of an eternal nail clipper, our intrepid hero kept chipping away while dicking around and driving through his ducking weapon. Damn autocorrect.

Slowly the emo dragon began to shed it's skin while using a shower-head to sing in. Due to health and safety regulations, this iteration of November rain as if sung through a microphone made out of the word no, can not be played for your enjoyment. Also because this is text and not an audiobook. Because everything has to be an audio-book nowadays. Fucking Spanderson and his wonderful books and delicious voice actors. Especially with a nice chianti.

But the dragon hesitated and reflected on it's life. Using two mirrors and half a brain, it tried to self-reflect visually, rather than emotionally or intellectually, as was customary. It found itself to be a real winner with it's advanced dadbod and flames that could melt whatever shred of hope it still had of living a normal life beyond this series. In fact, due to the high luck stat of the player, the dragon was now fully locked inside a permanent stasis, looking how swole it's biceps were while gazing into forever. Which is the void behind the dragon's eyes where a normal creature would have a brain. Or several. However many you can afford really. The author has three. One for studying, one for cleaning and another one to hide the sins of god inside after he browsed xhamster for a few hours.

Three-brain, or try-brain if we're talking about the hero was a common affliction nowadays due to society's need for multitasking while the average evolved monkey needs to permanently stick a thumb up it's ass just to not grow haemorrhoids. But small blood balloons aside (make for a great birthday gift by the way, kids love balloons... and blood. If you're part of the extended Dahmer family at least. Actually, that particular family wouldn't even care about the balloon. Just buckets upon buckets of very inclusive horror.)

From behind a conveniently placed chest high wall the hero's party could hear unwhisperlike curse words that rained down like intense haemorrhoids on everybody. Which is different from where they would usually originate.

“Seems like the dark lord really invested in body warfare this time. I wonder why.”

How the hero treats ethnic food can also be considered body warfare to be honest. A war against the senses and sensibilities of the average working chump who didn't stay home to cook tendies. Who now has to explain to his wife and kids why he twitches every time someone farts. Not because of the actual war that man experienced, but the ptsd he received from watching the hero defile the sanctity of this world, whatever little there still is, whenever he goes to the toilet.

“Ok, sounds like a lot of words and you're just babbling again. People really don't want this much useless exposition, you know? All that matters in the end is that I've won and the bad guys lost.”

The dark figure showed himself, shook his arm while cradling his haemorrhoids and ran away, gently. To not pop any of the...

“IT'S NOT HAEMORRHOIDS YOU BUNCH OF BABOONS. BLOODY HELL. I'm doing all of this stuff with a reason. You'll find out why later if the author doesn't forget.”