Freya had always assumed that storming a demon lord's dungeon would involve swords, fireballs, and possibly a melodramatic flashback where someone whispered, "You were always the chosen one." What she didn't expect was paperwork. Reams and reams of it. Enough to pulp an entire enchanted forest.
"Please fill out forms 14-A through 27-F in triplicate," droned the goblin receptionist behind a crystalline desk. She wore tiny bifocals and had a nameplate that read 'Mrs. Grubble, HR Demon Department.'
Freya squinted at the desk, then at the forms. "Triplicate? Do you even have a shredder big enough for this mess?"
Mrs. Grubble pushed forward a ballpoint pen that was leaking ink and what might have been despair. "Section 3, Subsection 9b: All adventurers must sign the liability waiver in case of spontaneous combustion, cursed toenails, or sudden protagonist backstory revelations."
"I don't even know my backstory!" Freya cried, flailing slightly. "I skipped the prologue!"
Mrs. Grubble didn't blink. She might not have eyelids. "Then initial here, here, and here for Narrative Inconsistency Clause. Please be aware, refusal to comply will result in immediate deployment of our Legal Golem."
Greg, meanwhile, had been trapped in a battle of wills with a magical photocopier that was printing increasingly elaborate versions of his last will and testament, including dramatic fonts and an annex about his childhood hamster.
"Why does it keep adding a tragic backstory about my pet named Biscuit?" he asked no one in particular.
"Maybe the copier's possessed by an angsty playwright," Bunny offered helpfully while fending off a talking filing cabinet that had grown legs and was attempting to recruit her for a union.
Sir Beef was taking the paperwork seriously, scribbling his answers with focused dedication. "I've faced dragons, trolls, and cursed mayonnaise. But nothing... nothing... prepares you for administrative protocol," he muttered, sweat beading beneath his helmet.
The dungeon lobby looked less like a dark pit of torment and more like a DMV built by Kafka during his emo phase. There were glowing skulls being used as desk lamps, eldritch paintings that watched you fill out forms (and judged your handwriting), and a disembodied voice over the intercom repeating, "Take a number, perish slowly."
Freya finally snapped. "Why is there a waiting room in a demon lord's lair?"
"Efficiency," Mrs. Grubble said, with all the warmth of a tax audit. "This is the Department of Interdimensional Mayhem and Torture. If we didn't organize chaos, how would anyone know it was intentional?"
Suddenly, a chime dinged. "Number 666, please proceed to the Torture Pre-Approval Department."
A skeleton in a leisure suit stood up and shuffled off, holding a manila folder and whistling a cheerful tune.
"I feel like we walked into the wrong game," Greg muttered.
"Welcome to Bureaucracy Quest," Bunny said, deadpan. "Achievement unlocked: Pen Pusher Paladin."
Eventually, after 47 minutes of quill-based combat with the forms (and one near-fatal encounter with a sentient staple remover named Clippy), the party was called forward to the next phase.
They entered a chamber that looked like a cross between a courtroom and a kindergarten art room. Brightly colored chaos glyphs were scrawled on the walls in crayon. At the center sat a very tired-looking imp in a tie.
"Name, purpose, and whether you brought snacks," the imp said.
"Freya. Hero. And... protein bars?"
"Acceptable." The imp gestured at a chair. "This is your final compliance interview before being granted access to the actual dungeon boss fight. Be warned: Failure to answer truthfully will result in you being dropped into the Chamber of Existential Dread."
Greg raised a hand. "Is that different from the Room of Eternal Taxes?"
"Oh yes. That one is two floors down."
The interview began.
"Have you ever been part of an unauthorized resistance group, adventurer guild, or multi-level marketing scheme?"
"No?"
"Have you ever spoken to a duck that turned out to be a cursed prince?"
"...Not yet?"
"Have you ever betrayed your party, reversed time, or collected more than three cursed rings at once?"
"Define 'betrayal,'" Freya hedged.
The imp scribbled something suspiciously like a doodle of a crying unicorn.
"Have you been romantically involved with any monsters, undead, or sentient furniture?"
Everyone turned to Greg, who immediately turned pink. "IT WAS ONE TIME AND THAT ARMCHAIR UNDERSTOOD ME."
The imp stamped a form. "You're cleared for Dungeon Access Level One. Good luck. And beware the sentient HR binder on floor three. It's unionizing."
As they passed through the final golden archway (which insulted Freya's armor on the way), they entered the actual dungeon. At last, a lava moat! Spiky ceilings! Floating platforms over bottomless pits!
"Finally!" Freya said. "We're back in adventure mode!"
Bunny pointed. "Uh, incoming!"
From the shadows emerged the most feared creature of all: a Demon Auditor, wielding a calculator blessed by the Dark Spreadsheet God.
"Prepare for your expense evaluation," it growled.
Freya screamed.