It turned out that, fortunately, the dungeon was temperate. Also, every single 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 wasn't to say that they weren't a threat. Like the Demon dungeon, the Angel one was a multitude of towers connected via bridges, although everything was golden and shiny, instead of grey and dank.
