《George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]》 Chapter 1 - Evil Holiday Book 1 - The Sleeping Darkness It had been a long day. They were all long days. Bob muttered to himself, as he piled unwashed dishes into his kitchen sink (a problem for tomorrow¡¯s Bob). The sheer inhumanity of the thing. They kept him locked up in that office for nine hours each day, cramped him into an uncomfortable chair and made him stare for endless stretches at a flickering blue screen. You just couldn¡¯t make this stuff up. But when he brought up the injustice of the whole system, people looked at him like he was crazy. Bob''s stomach rumbled discontentedly. The meal had been less than satisfying. You could only do so much with frozen dinners, but a man could hardly be expected to whip up a meal from scratch after he''d crawled back home after a soul-crushing day. Especially today, because today had been a bad day. A bad, long day. In the calendar of bad days, today took special place, like some evil holiday. Robert Brown, junior quality assurance engineer, had cycled into the office that morning, wandered zombielike to his desk, plopped himself down on his chair, clicked into his computer and there it was: the bug of his nightmares, The Russian Trojan Turtle. It was back. The Slackback Turtle, a messaging platform for tortoise and turtle enthusiasts, prided itself on its wide and very specific range of reptile emojis. But now one user complained, and provided video evidence, that upon sending a Greek Tortoise emoji to his friends, the emoji was warped somehow and transformed into a Russian Tortoise emoji. Customer Service had been tactful enough to include the user''s comment in the ticket: "And just think," with the outrage of an expert on an obscure and meaningless topic, "my associates might have believed that I couldn''t tell the difference between the two of them. I''d be a pariah in the shelly community." Now Bob would freely admit to anyone and everyone who asked that he could not tell the difference between the two emojis. In fact, when the bug had first been reported a year and a half ago and naturally, as a low-priority, low-effort ticket, been dropped on him as the newbie QA, Bob''s first move had been along these lines. Bob had actually gone to the emoji designer and asked him point-blank if the two emojis weren''t just copies of each other. Somehow (astonishingly) that hadn''t earned Bob any good will. The designer had pointed out, with not a little irritation, that the Greek tortoise emoji was a shade smaller than its Russian counterpart and that its shell patches were golden-yellow as opposed to the pure-yellow of the Russian. Only the obvious emotion in the designer''s voice convinced Bob he wasn''t being taken for a ride. He''d gone back to his desk, pulled out his ruler and tried measuring the emojis on his screen. Both appeared exactly four millimeters across. Maybe his ruler wasn''t precise enough? Still Bob had guts and the desperate determination of a man who didn''t want to have to job-hunt again. He thought of himself as rather a good QA. He had a creative mind and took an unhealthy pleasure in breaking features. He was a little offended if a story got past him without a couple bug tickets. He could figure this out. No, no, he couldn''t. Bob had invested many hours in a faithful attempt to reproduce the issue. He had failed. He had failed miserably. The bug had been marked as unreproducible and buried deep in the team''s backlog. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The story should have ended there, but, tragedy of tragedies, today, on this evil holiday, an identical complaint from a different user with new evidence had just appeared. It pretty much signaled the death knell for Bob''s career prospects. An issue that already affected multiple end users, and which Bob had "supposedly" spent multiple days investigating and with nothing to show for it, no steps to reproduce, not even an educated guess... Well he didn''t come out of that sounding good, did he? No, there was no escape. Bob reckoned it was odds on they would fire him. The user was already threatening to complain on the forums. The company was in jeopardy. Something had to be done. Someone had to take the fall. Bob crumbled onto the sofa. The grind followed you everywhere. Here he was, supposedly off-the-clock, and yet still obsessing over the bug ticket, scrambling around for any conceivable flow he hadn''t already tested half-a-dozen times. Work was like a parasite, some leech clamped down on the back of his neck, just where he couldn''t see it, slowly draining away his life blood. Thank god for George. Bob sat down on the floor beside his golden retriever and took the dog''s head in his lap. Georgie-boy yawned charmingly and Bob smiled through the stinky dog breath. He stroked the soft patch at the back of the dog''s neck and rubbed away that little eye gunk the dog always seemed to pick up somewhere. There''s something about your own dog. You can just tell he loves you. That he wants you to be there. That he misses you. There''s something so uncomplicated and pure about a dog''s love. There''s nothing quite like it. Bob started to feel better. Things were looking up. And he knew what he wanted to do now. He was headed for a warmer and more comfortable place. The one true oasis in the scarred and ugly world of modern labor: the bath. Yes, Bob would probably have given up all hope long ago and been ground down into one of those robot-people you see everywhere, if not for the rejuvenating and restorative efforts of a hot bath with a good book. Bob grabbed up the paperback he was reading and made for his happy place. This involved stepping over the curled-up figure of his golden retriever, because George had acquired the annoying and endearing habit of parking himself right in front of the bathroom doorway. The dog was a sleepy sentinel, who would slowly raised his head, blink his eyes questioningly a few times at passing intruders, before letting himself fall back into a half-dead stupor. Bob bent down and scratched the dog¡¯s neck in passing; George let out a low contented sound. That dog has a good life. Better than Bob''s at any rate. Bob made a half-hearted attempt at closing the door, but the dog shot him an annoyed look and he gave the thing up. George had never been good at following instructions. Enough of that. Enough of troubles and guilt. Enough of the world''s ugliness. There it was. The soothing sound of running water and the warm, inviting steam that curls over the tub. He stripped down and with the paperback under one arm, stepped into the water¡¯s embrace. It was piping hot, just the way he liked it. Cloaked in a cloud of white mist, he sighed serenely. The day¡¯s troubles started to melt away; he let himself breathe in long and slow; he sensed his own warm blood circling his body. This was life. He¡¯d kept both hands out of the water, not wanting to wet his book, Jonny the Man: the Kiwi Warriors. He was at a good place and had spent most of the work day anticipating what would happen next. There''s nothing like going to another world, where a seemingly ordinary man discovers his potential and grows into the hero of ages. Bob could finally forget his stressors: the specter of the trojan turtle, his impending termination, his empty dreams. He leaned back in the tub and moaned happily. Bob''s time had come. Finally, peace and quiet and joy. He rested his elbow on the rim of the tub, and thumbed through looking for the earmarked page. "Jonny, my old friend, glorious seeing you again."
Commencing System Integration Protocol...
Chapter 2 – The Great Questions
Commencing System Integration Protocol...
The grey, translucent message hovered in front of Bob''s face. Needless to say, the sight had surprised him terribly, but a long-standing habit of laziness had protected him from any sudden movements. A good thing too because Jonny the Man might have tumbled into the watery depths of the bathtub. Bob''s first thought, after he recovered the capacity of thought, was: "can I ignore this?" He waited a couple seconds and then a couple more. Nothing dramatic happened. "Yes I think I can ignore this," Bob decided, turning back to his book.
Planetary Handshake Attempted... Planetary Handshake Success.
Ah, Bob made an indefinite sound between displeasure and confusion. Bob read through the text. It didn''t mean a lot to him. And in all honesty, it sounded a little above his pay grade. This sounded like something for the higher-ups, the generals, presidents and prime minsters of the world. Why else do we put them in big, white houses? Bob figured nobody would mind if he, you know, got back to his book. Jonny was waiting and all.
Commencing Potential Value Analysis... Initiation Candidates Identified. Recycle Candidates Identified.
Ah, Bob''s sound had shifted along the spectrum towards annoyance. Bob made a token effort to parse the words. He was a good citizen, willing to do his part, even at great personal cost to himself. "Recycle Candidates" sounded ominous. Bob didn''t understand how plastics were recycled, didn''t understand and wasn''t really interested. But recycling humans seemed like a process many orders of magnitude more complex and painful.
Scheduling Recycle Action... Recycle Action Scheduled for T-90 seconds.
Ah, was there a shade of fear in the sound? Bob wondered whether he should get out of the bath. It was a tricky problem. There were lots of variables to consider. For one, the messages were appearing projected over Bob''s vision. It seemed highly improbable that they were somehow connected with his bathtub. Improbable but not impossible. Still he was loath to leave the comfort and safety of the warm water on the mere chance of an improbability.
Loading System Initiation... Initiation Plane Generated. Commencing Initiation Customization... Initiation Customization Complete.
Ah, the masculine acknowledgement of a new development. Something was happening; Bob felt confident he could assert at least that much. He slowly started to close Jonny the Man. Bob stopped himself. He really wanted to find out what was going to happen next. And it didn''t sound like he had much to do with the messages. Or at least, it didn''t sound like whatever he did would make any difference. The consolation of the weak. It wasn''t like the, what was the name, "the system," wouldn''t penalize him for reading, would it? There couldn''t possibly exist an in-the-bath penalty, now could there?
Preparing Initiation Transport... Initiation Transport Preparations Complete. Scheduling Initiation Transport... Initiation Transport Scheduled for T-60 seconds. Recycle Action Countdown: T-60 seconds.
Ah, Bob''s anger flared out in the familiar vocalization. Only one minute. Bob could barely wade through a paragraph in that time. He wouldn''t find out who would win the fight. Jonny the Man and Kai Vortex were locked in a desperate, death-defying duel. Now might be Bob''s only chance to see the thing through. He searched desperately around for the sentence he''d been reading.
Commencing World Survey... World Survey Complete. World Evolution Criteria Unfulfilled; World Terraform Required. Scheduling World Terraform... World Terraform Scheduled for T-120 seconds. Initiation Transport Countdown: T-30 seconds. Recycle Action Countdown: T-30 seconds.
Ah, despair. Bob closed Jonny the Man. It was no good. Bob couldn¡¯t read the book through the stream of grey messages that obscured his vision. He had been deprived of his final pleasure. Bob sighed and read back up through the logs. As far as he could make out, these "Candidates" were divided into two groups: "Initiation" and "Recycle". The initiation group was marked out to be transported somewhere, while the recycle group was doomed to face a "Recycle Action."
Initiation Transport Countdown: T-10 seconds. Recycle Action Countdown: T-10 seconds.
Ah... Bob pondered the two options. He didn''t have to ponder very long. People didn''t walk away from a recycle action. The phrase had a finality to it. Initiation, on the other hand, was a new beginning, a place to grow and develop. Unfortunately, Bob''s newfound preference robbed him of the divine indifference he had enjoyed earlier. He suddenly felt very invested in the outcome, yet simultaneously possessing no means of influencing it. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Initiation Transport in 3
That was when the obvious explanation first occurred to Bob: "I''ve gone crazy, haven''t I? Bat crazy. Work stress. I knew it would get to me eventually, but I thought I had more time. Isn''t it supposed to happen in your forties. I''m still in my twenties. It''s not fair."
Initiation Transport in 2
"Oh no, here she comes." Bob clenched the sides of the tub, preparing himself for the worst. He had the maddening impression that he had forgotten something important. He bit his lip and tried to think.
Recycle Action in 3
He hadn''t left the stove on had he? Was it something to do with work? Did he pay his phone bill this month? Had he left the window open? No, that didn''t feel right. Come on Bob, think!
Initiation Transport in 1
"George!" Bob called out to the dog. The dog was lying on the bathroom threshold just where Bob had left him. He hadn''t stirred an inch. George cracked open an eye and turned his head around at the sound.
Recycle Action in 2
That didn''t sound good. Looked like they both missed the bus. Bob gulped. His stomach all butterflies.
Recycle Action in 1
Goodbye George. The world blazed white and then snapped back into focus. Bob fell a half-inch or so to the ground, splashing down into a patch of mud, butt-naked, with nothing but the paperback in his hand. Bob couldn''t believe it. The system had gone and slapped him with an in-the-bath penalty. I told you, you should''ve gotten out.
Greetings, sentient. Welcome to the System Initiation! Best of luck
Today truly was the worst of days. Where was the welcoming warmth, the soothing swirl of mist, the gentle glow of indoor light¡ªhe was sitting in a brown puddle of mud, in what looked like a forest, and yes, of course, it was raining, just a grey drizzle from an overcast sky, but couldn¡¯t a man catch a break?
Challenge One (1/4): Defeat the boar
Bob slowly worked his way to his feet, groaning and grumbling, cursing and complaining. He rubbed tenderly at his backside; he hadn¡¯t landed well and he bruised easily. And all the while, he was trying his best to avoid soiling the book (he was at a really good part). The result was he had to push himself up with one hand in a rather awkward, unnatural position. He was up. He was standing. The great man is the one who always gets back up. He stood there in the empty forest, the rain drizzling down, and how he stank! The mud stuck to him. It had gotten everywhere, truly everywhere. It must have splashed up when he was catapulted here, because his front was spotted and spattered with mud. How was he supposed to get this slime off himself? He had no towel or tissues, nothing to wipe with. In sheer desperation, he used his one free hand to scrape away thick clots of mud and throw them onto the ground. This was less than effective; if anything it seemed to spread the mud around, resulting in a wider (though thinner) continuous sheen. He needed to find himself civilization, a hot shower, a cotton towel and some fresh clothes. Even a system initiation must have the essential services. It was just then that he heard a low, nasal call from the bushes, maybe thirty yards ahead, followed by a rustling that steadily increased in volume. ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± An adult boar, think giant brown pig with sharp white tusks, was nosing its way through the undergrowth. ¡°Challenge, my arse; how in god¡¯s name am I suppose to defeat that thing.¡± A dagger materialized in the air in front of him, he fumbled, almost saved it, and then splat, straight into the thickest part of the mud. ¡°God dammit; very funny, very funny¡± Bob mouthed, shaking a fist vaguely in the air, as though threatening the tree in front of him. He reached down, hesitated, for pity¡¯s sake, he¡¯d just wiped off his hand, did he really need the knife, but a low grumble from the bush ahead was a persuasive argument. He plunged his hand back into the mud, seized the dagger and readied himself. Which is to say he crouched slightly and held the dagger out in front of him (mostly for effect). The boar didn¡¯t seem to have noticed him yet. No surprise there, must be hard to smell anything through all this mud. Maybe he could still sneak away, yes, that¡¯s what he¡¯d do; ambush it later once it had fallen asleep. He tried to step stealthily away: squelch. The boar reacted instantaneously, eyes wide, head turning directly towards him, tusks glistening menacingly. ¡°Ok, Bob; you got this. Nice and easy.¡± He¡¯d finally dropped the book he had been carefully protecting all this time¨Cthere is only so much a man could do. ¡°You¡¯ll step out of the way at the last second and stab it as it passes; easy-peasy, easy-peasy; here she comes.¡± He tossed the dagger between his two hands, the steel blade spinning in the air, as he tried to project an air of calm professionalism. Like he was cool and ready, not arrogant, just confident enough to want to wrap things up¡ªthat is until the boar roared and charged at him. Bob mistimed his catch. Most unfortunate. But he had the wit to give up on the thing practically immediately and just legged it for the nearest tree. The boar followed, gaining speed. When, thankfully, mercifully, the mud slowed the boar down. Bob never imagined he¡¯d end up feeling so grateful for a spot of mud here and there. Bob was already in the higher branches when the boar impacted the trunk. He was high and clear, except the tree trembled and shook, and the shaking damn well nearly knocked Bob right out of the tree and onto the waiting boar¡¯s head. Somehow, god-willing, he clung on. He was panting, breath ragged, his feet, hands, knees scratched all over by the knobby bark. He looked like some island savage who¡¯d just emerged from a thorn bush. But he was grinning ear-to-ear, alive, he was alive; the boar hadn¡¯t yet turned him into road kill. Yet, he reminded himself, placing a steadying hand against the trunk as he looked down. The boar was circling the tree, its beady, little eyes glaring up at Bob, as it huffed and puffed its displeasure at the indecent intruder. Bob leaned back and sighed. This was turning into quite the ordeal. He reached out and snapped off a ripe apple from the branch in front of him. It had turned out to be an apple tree. Good thing too, because by the look of things, he expected he¡¯d be stuck up here for the foreseeable future. He bit it into it, rather juicy, if he did say so himself, comforted the soul, a good apple did. He even thought he felt the stinging of his scratches lessen a little bit. When he¡¯d swallowed down as much as he could, he dropped the core into a little hollow in the trunk. First rule of a siege: don¡¯t feed the enemy. Well then, snack and self-congratulations out of the way, now was Bob''s chance to put things in order, iron out the wrinkles in this situation, clean house, you know. And the first order of business was: where in God¡¯s name was he? He looked up at the sky, but it was one grey ugly face looking down at him. Not that in all honesty, he could have inferred anything from the angle of the sun or the position of the stars. Celestial geometry was not one of Bob¡¯s specialities. But these things are worth trying. He supposed he ought to be asking himself whether he was dreaming. That was what characters tended to do in these sort of situations. Somehow Bob didn¡¯t really see it that way. He was a practical man. Head-on-shoulders kind of guy. After all, he was here wasn¡¯t he, living, running, suffering. It was just as real and a good deal more painful than anything else he¡¯d experienced in his twenty-four years on this planet. Sure, that he was not in his bath, enjoying a warm soak and a quiet book, was surprising, yes, most surprising. Bob granted that. How had he got here? How could he get back? What had all that strange text meant? All complete mysteries. Bob granted all this. But Bob was a take-as-you-go kind of guy. And the universe had made its wishes very clear: ¡°defeat the boar.¡± What good would it do to stand there debating the motivations of a being infinitely more powerful than oneself? The job was clear. Defeat the boar. And he meant to give the thing the old college try. Problem was, see, how the hell was he going to mange that, stuck up in a tree, butt-naked, his only weapon buried in the mud ten paces away? And for Pete¡¯s sake was this rain ever going to let up? Truly the great questions of our time. Chapter 3 - The Mind of Man He munched on another apple. They were all he had left at this point. The one silver lining in this god-awful situation. And they made a good supplement to his lacking evening meal. He¡¯d been stuck up this tree for a whole hour now, maybe longer, hard to say for sure, given there was no real way to tell the time. And the whole while, that infernal boar hadn¡¯t moved an inch. The thing had practically set up camp right under him. The sheer audacity of the creature! It took Bob¡¯s breath away. It sat down there, sneering up at him, throwing a deep grunt every couple of minutes, like it wanted to say: "I know you¡¯re up there. " But, tasty apple, this. Mildly mud-scented of course. He¡¯d made a passing effort at wiping off as much mud as he could onto the leaves around him. But at this point the action was more ritual than utilitarian (the whole forest stank to begin with). Honestly speaking, he¡¯d sort of gotten used to the smell by now; earthy, you know, made one feel connected with nature. Being up in a tree is awful uncomfortable at the best of times, but stark nudity truly aggravates the situation. He couldn¡¯t lean back against the bough without the rough tree skin biting into his back. Sitting down, on the other hand, was out of the question for obvious reasons. That left him, half crouched, leaning forward with arms crossed against the trunk. It was probably the most awkward position he could have imagined for himself and at the same time, unfortunately, the most comfortable one available to him. He didn¡¯t know how much longer he could keep this up; his thighs burned, his back felt knotted up, his shoulders ached. He¡¯d manage maybe ten more minutes, fifteen on a good day, he speculated, thoughtfully chewing on a mouthful of apple. There comes a point when death begins to seem preferable. He needed to do something, yes, damn right, he needed to act, action that¡¯s what he needed; but that thought had been popping into his head every thirty seconds for the last hour without satisfactory answer. It was typically followed by the question: what¡¯s wrong with that damn boar? Is this what boars do? The animal was obviously trying to wait him out. At first, he¡¯d figured the boar would bugger off after ten minutes when it got it through its thick skull that it couldn¡¯t reach him up in a tree. But the brute was still here more than an hour later. Bob grit his teeth and shook his fist at the dirty animal. Focus, Bob, focus; where¡¯s that laser focus you¡¯re known for? He needed to act. Bob gathered himself together for some serious thinking. First, he masterfully surveyed the field of battle: the boar was entrenched at the foot of the tree; ten yards to the south was the dagger (¡°reinforcements¡±), and two yards to the west of that point was the book (¡°supplies¡±). Bob mapped out the position in his mind. And at a glance he understood that he was at a disadvantage. He sat out of range of both reinforcements and supplies. Cut off, he chewed the word. Bob needed to regroup with his allies¡ªthat was the obvious objective. But how could it be managed? "General, would you illuminate me on the strategic significance of the book?" "Well Sergeant, I was just at the good part and this here is a siege and a protracted one at that; morale, sergeant, morale. If you can¡¯t keep the troops¡¯ morale up, the battle will be over before it is even begun." In plain speech, if he was going to have spent a couple more hours up in this god-forsaken tree, waiting for that boar to die of thirst or at least piss off somewhere, he sure as hell wanted something to read. Hence the strategic significant of said book. "Following, sergeant?" "Yes sir." Objectives clearly defined; Bob gave thought to the means of execution. The forest was dense, and he might with sufficient luck and skill, climb between the trees and so approach both dagger and book. All very good. There was an obvious objection of course: even supposing he manage to manoeuvre into position, how would get the things up into the tree? Tricky, tricky, very tricky, quite the puzzler; he¡¯d need all his wits for this one. Bob stroked his chin, the very picture of a general deep in contemplation. A hook, yes, but how? He mumbled into his mud mustache. Magnets? Potential, plenty of potential, but where? No he needed to reground himself. What did he have on hand, what materials could he use? Leaves, yes, true, apples, plenty of apples, yes, very true, sticks, hm... sticks, there was something in that. Sticks, you say, chop-sticks¡­ "Brilliant general. I mean bravo. Simply a master stroke." "Sergeant, what a thing the mind of man. Sometimes I take my own breath away." Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Well then, down to business, execution, execution, execution. "Off we go, three, two, one!" Bob didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t even attempt to move. He stood exactly where he had been three seconds ago, which also happened to be exactly where he had been thirty seconds ago, on the closest branch to the neighboring tree, walked out as far as he could safely manage. It had been the fifth or maybe even the sixth countdown he had tried (unclear whether giving up on two should be counted). But somehow Bob¡¯s body absolutely refused to cooperate. Insubordination that was the word! Why wouldn¡¯t it obey his commands? A simple thing like jumping between two branches. But every time, at the last second, Bob¡¯s body seemed to balk at the prospect of flinging itself to the neighboring tree. There was something in the idea of entrusting himself to the air, while an angry boar looked suspiciously on, that upset his stomach. He made another attempt at edging a little further along the branch, but he could literally feel it starting to give way under him. No this was the only way. Love of fate and all¡ªhe¡¯d just have to chance it. Run and jump that¡¯s was the ticket. Well, here goes nothing. He ran. He jumped. He¡­ Crack, he slammed into the trunk, winded, scrambling for a handhold, the boar roaring angrily beneath him, he caught one branch, then another, his legs were under him again, safe, he sighed, gasping for breath. His heart couldn¡¯t take much more of this. He¡¯d die of shock one of these days. He looked down and made a pleasant discovery. The boar¡¯s explosive roar had not been without cause. The force of Bob¡¯s majestic push-off had snapped the branch he¡¯d been standing on, which had proceeded to fall down on the head of the boar below. But as luck would have it, the boar had been looking up at just that moment, and the branch had had just enough height to spin, so that the long and short of it was that the animal had suffered a vicious prod to its eye. No death wound by the sound of it ¡ª but the whole incident had certainly enraged the animal. Even to the point that it had started repeatedly head-butting the base of the tree Bob was in. The tree shook mildly at each impact, but it was a thick apple tree and barely flinched at the boar¡¯s battering. Hell, not even a single apple fell from its branch. And by this time, Bob was plenty secure. With double handholds and solid footing, he was not about to be shaken out of his roost. All told the boar probably did more damage to itself. So good work Bob, pat on the back; step one cleared with bonus damage to the boar below. Can¡¯t say better than that. Time for step two. He shimmied through the tree¡¯s crown until he stood directly above the dagger. Next he selected two long thin branches and snapped them off. He worked his way down the tree, climbing as low as he could without exposing himself to the boar¡¯s weaponry. There, with a branch in each hand, he started trying to sandwich the dagger between them. It took Bob a full two seconds to realize the utter futility of his plan. The sticks weren¡¯t rigid enough; they bent and sagged at the slightest weight. He could hardly budge the dagger, let alone haul it up. So much for Bob¡¯s master plan. But adaptability is the real proof of brilliance, he¡¯d always said. And in a few moments, Bob had a new and improved plan: Master Plan 1.1. It was really just a minor variation on the initial plan. He decided to abandon the romantic notion of chopsticks. Instead, he would get himself a thicker, more rigid branch. Then he¡¯d roll or drag the dagger as close as he could to the trunk of the tree. From there, he¡¯d press it against the trunk and sort of drag it up against the bough until it came into hand''s reach. A good plan, all said and done ¡ª but the boar wasn¡¯t taking this sitting down. It rushed over to head off Bob¡¯s efforts and quickly managed to snap off the end of his branch. ¡°Damn brute,¡± Bob screamed (the unfairness of it all) and jabbed wildly with the remainder of his stick. His aim was true. And the boar took a second blow to the already wounded eye. It howled and rammed itself into the tree, tusk penetrating wood. The eye was oozing horribly (Bob had a good aerial view from where he stood), blood dripping down and the whole eye socket swollen and red. There was a chance here, Bob¡¯s lightning mind quickly observed. The boar was pinned, tusk caught into the tree. If he could blind the beast while it was unable to move¡­ One-two, one-two, the branch flickered in Bob¡¯s hand as he prodded savagely at the boar¡¯s one good eye. The boar shook its head, closed its eye, bellowed defiance, but it was only a matter of time before the death blow landed, he¡¯d do it yet, Bob would slay the dragon, one more good shot, Bob reached into himself for that last pocket of strength, that well of heroes, that transcendent spark¡ªthe boar got there first. With a momentous effort, the animal pulled its tusk free and scrambled back. Ugly scratches covered the boar¡¯s face, his bad eye was pulsing with pink goo, but, alas, the beast could still see. Bob¡¯s sally had failed and the siege was renewed. But his enemy had learned caution. It kept well back now, content with trapping Bob in the trees as it lorded over the plains. On the positive side, though, the boar no longer interrupted Bob¡¯s efforts to scoop up book and dagger. On the negative side, Bob proved utterly unable to recapture his dagger. He spent a good fifteen minutes on the enterprise and a couple times he¡¯d been so close, but the thing was just too heavy. The mud and rain didn¡¯t make things any easier. The knife just kept slipping down or turning over or falling out, like it enjoyed the sound of Bob¡¯s angry cursing. In the end, Bob¡¯s patience ran out. What could he do with a dagger up here anyway? Bob had better luck with the book. He¡¯d managed to get a branch between the pages and slowly hook it up balanced atop the stick. This was some comfort, because he was cold, his whole body ached and the rain hadn¡¯t let up, so he could well use a distraction. Not to mention the simple joy of knowing that the whole expedition hadn¡¯t been a complete waste. He picked another apple. It seemed like they were in an apple grove or something; they were all apple trees now that he stopped to look. And started munching not unhappily as he flicked open the book and started reading. Jonny the Man: the Kiwi Warriors. Good stuff this. A real dopamine drip. Life really was all about the simple pleasures. Chapter 4 - Sweat Another man might have worn himself out, worrying about the angry monster camped under his tree house, desperately groping after plans and schemes of escape and victory; another man might have found it impossible to focus on the fictitious struggles of Jonny the Man and his band of Kiwi warriors. But Bob, Bob was made of sterner stuff. Life was the journey and not the destination. You had to enjoy the ride. Bob took a few moments to get a little bit more comfortable. Pride only does one so much good stuck up in a tree without clothes and his body was screaming for some more bearable position. Against the argument of agony, even the prospect of a scratched up behind had begun to seem tolerable. He lowered himself down onto a branch, nice and gentle now. The wood was hard, cold and rough, but anything beat standing. And look at that, another branch just in front served as a good book rest. He made the best of things. Bob settled right in. The plot was about what you''d imagine. Jonny had stumbled upon an ancient virtual reality console and accidentally ended up inside the game, The Multiverse Odyssey. Turns out Jonny was unique in the cosmos (big surprise) with access to all twelve Ki essences. And the grey-bearded master, Yamada Taro, had come out of retirement to mentor young Jonny. Yamada-sensei had taught Jonny the importance of Wi, self-mastery, the energy of one''s soul that came through discipline and mediation, and Jonny had formed the Kiwi ("Ki Wi") Warriors. His fledgling organization had been challenged by the local strongman, Kai Vortex, leader of the tyrannical band: the Wiki ("Wi Ki") Warriors. Jonny was facing down Kai now. Or he was doing his best to avoid getting flattened, because Kai was in the process of displaying an absurd and inhuman level of power. Jonny would have to dig pretty deep to get himself out of this one. Implausibly deep. Power up very likely. The story was quite a page-turner and Bob enjoyed himself thoroughly. It''s amazing what a good book can do. Bob laughed. He cried. He almost fell out of the tree. How does the author come with this stuff? Bob shook his head in wonder at the creative process. It¡¯s absolutely golden. Or is it? Bob read back a passage to himself. One of Jonny''s flashbacks as he sought the metaphysical inspiration necessary to defeat a superior foe: "Jonny, get this through your thick skull. Survival ain''t enough. We all goin'' to die. You goin'' to die, Jonny." "No I ain''t." "Yes you are, Jonny. You think you some kinda demi-god. You goin'' die, Jonny. You goin'' die good. But listen to me. I''m saying something here. You need to get stronger. For others sure, for your little sis, for grandad, but more than that, for you. Remember this, boy: sweat makes the man. You ain''t sweating enough." "I sweat plenty." Jonny smelled his shirt. "Smell this." "God, that smells bad." Sometimes Bob had trouble telling if a book was really good or really bad. Was the author trying to be funny or serious? It sounded like it was maybe profound, but the idea was just hidden really well beneath crude humor and questionable grammar. In the moment, he''d been moved by Yamada-sensei''s exceptional insight but reading back, was it all just setup for the sweat joke? Bob deliberated a moment, hesitated a second, and then decided it was profound. The author, Bob squinted at the cover, Jonny Johnson was a genius. Couldn''t say more than that. Bob grudgingly paused here to take a look at his own boar situation. This here was definitely not a natural space. Hours must have passed since he¡¯d been teleported to the forest, but the sky appeared just the same as when he¡¯d first looked up. Down below the boar was moaning quietly to itself, evidently still in a good bit of pain. It was kneeling in the mud, bathing its wounded eye. Why wouldn¡¯t it just go back to its den? Bob had no quarrel with the animal. He almost pitied the beast. Wasn¡¯t there some more peaceful resolution to the whole affair? "Defeat" didn¡¯t mean "kill". Maybe he could get the boar to acknowledge defeat in some way. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Bob spent a couple minutes brainstorming ideas. He quickly realized that he lacked the creative genius of Jonny Johnson. He didn''t think getting the boar to play a best of three rock-paper-scissors was particularly practical. Nor entirely fair, since the boar with its hoof could only play rock. But Bob would probably lose any contest of strength or speed. And that was about the extent of the ideas he managed to scrounge out of the old brain. Instead he turned back to the book. At least he had Jonny. At least he had Jonny. Ten minutes later Bob closed the book. He hadn''t wanted to stop. If he could, he would have read straight through to the end. He wanted to read through. Unfortunately, it was becoming impossible to make out what was happening. To be honest, he hadn¡¯t really been able to follow the narrative in that last chapter. The rain hadn¡¯t let up and by now the pages had gone all soggy and the ink was starting to smudge. The mud on the cover didn¡¯t help matters. So Bob would never know Jonny''s fate... Bob stared up into the grey sky, the picture of a tortured soul. He''d spent the whole workday looking forward to Jonny''s adventures and now he''d never know, like, not he''d have to wait until tomorrow, no, no, he''d never know. Bob might very well be holding the only surviving copy of the work in the whole universe and it had just been rained through¡ªtough that, not fair, not fair at all. He finished another apple. Thank god for apples. He¡¯d made a point of not giving anything to the boar below, hoping it¡¯d finally get so hungry that it would have to start searching for food. However, long hours had convinced him that the boar would rather starve to death at its post than leave him in peace. Another good plan ruined. He tossed the apple core up in the air and caught it. Bob was pissed. Forty percent due to this system initiation thing and sixty percent due to the disappointment of not finding out the ultimate destiny of Jonny the Man. So... to hell with it. He hurled the pit down at the animal below. A pleasurable thunk told him he¡¯d hit his mark. He felt a little better. It had really made quite a pleasing sound. A warm glow filled his heart. Undiminished even when the pig started scoffing down the remains of the apple. Undiminished even when the beast found gall enough to look expectantly up at Bob as though hoping for seconds. Well, if it made them both feel better, who was Bob to defy fate? Bob gathered up a handful of hard, round apples, red and ripe. Time to begin the onslaught. Fire. He chunked apple after apple at the dumb brute, each one bouncing perfectly off its thick skull before rolling into the mud. Bob hadn¡¯t felt this good in weeks. The boar on its side was wild with delight, it didn¡¯t know where to turn, rushing first left than right, nose in the mud, hoovering up apple after apple until... gulp and suddenly it was coughing and spitting¡ªthat last apple hadn¡¯t gone down quite right. Aha, Bob gloated over his foe. "That was my plan all along (no it wasn''t). You''ve fallen for my trap, dumb brute. That''s what you get for messing with Bob Brown." Bob continued to pepper the boar with further apples. Really rubbing in his superiority and laughing manically the whole time at the prospect of finally putting foot down on solid ground. "I''m no squirrel," he shouted (as though the question had even been in doubt). The boar stumbled back, bucking and convulsing, its lungs struggling for air. It lashed out to left and right, battling imagined enemies as its brain starved for oxygen, and in its confusion, it slammed itself broad-side against Bob¡¯s tree. Bob, arms filled with apples, was unanchored; he wavered a moment, almost regained himself, and then it was all gone and he was tumbling down. His foot jarred into the ground and his head was thrown back, smacking against the hard wood, and splashing up a wave of mud that engulfed everyone and everything. The boar swiveled at the sound and charged madly at the source, throwing its head wildly around as it strove to dislodge the apple. Brave, noble Bob, our mighty hero, at this last pitch of desperation, at this moment for champions, did the only thing he could, he cowered, arms coming up to protect his head, whimpering about his god-forsaken luck, wishing he was a squirrel-like creature and could scurry up the trunk and away, waiting for the inevitable end, waiting and waiting and still waiting. "Get the thing over with won''t you," he heckled. But no blow arrived. Gradually, cautiously, suspiciously Bob unraveled his arms, spat out a mouthful of mud and opened his eyes. The boar had crumpled down just two paces from him; it looked scared out its mind. And Bob expected he looked about the same. A brush with death can do that to a man. He let out a long, low sigh. He''d survived, but this, this was only the beginning. Challenge number one. Ping, he saw a little message symbol in the top right corner of his vision. No doubt, the universe wanted to congratulate him on a stellar performance. He¡¯d get to it in a second. Universe be damned. Chapter 5 - The Bedrocks of Character Bob started the process of pulling himself together. It was a tough job. And he expected it to take a commensurate amount of time. His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, and his head throbbed awfully. He reached back a hand to find a comfortably sized bump where he had contacted the tree stump earlier. That was going to sting for a while. The leg he had fallen on felt little better. He had to believe that he¡¯d probably sprained his ankle, but he didn¡¯t want to put it to the test just yet. There was already enough despair to go around. On the positive side there didn¡¯t seem to be any broken bones. Guessed he had the mud to thank for that. Yes on the topic of mud, he was drenched. He was soaked to the skin in mud; it looked like he had been dipped in a vat of mud. Mud in his hair, mud in his ears, mud in his eyes. Continually blinking only aggravated the situation as more mud was transferred from his eyelids into his eyes. His muddiness was to such a degree that even the arbitrary and objective universe had judged it worthy of recognition. With a mental prod, he opened his first notification. It expanded into a semi-translucent window that felt almost like a game UI. Lines of text in an unobtrusive light-grey font were projected into the space in front of him.
Achievement: Muddy Description: Consider looking where you¡¯re going Achieve more than 80% mud coverage of total body surface area. Effect: A token bonus to base stats when covered in mud
Was Bob the only one who felt like the universe was making fun of him? Low blow, low blow. ¡°A token bonus to base stats¡±¡ªno idea what that meant, but the word, ¡°token¡±, did not inspire confidence. He was covered in mud now so the achievement¡¯s effect should be in play. He concentrated. Did he feel a little stronger or faster? He moved his arm up and down, tried clenching his fist. Maybe? Who was he kidding; he had no idea. Still a thought occurred to Bob, a dangerous, terrible thought. If there was an achievement for 80%, why not 90%? Dammit, why not 100%? He looked suspiciously up at the grey sky. Now Bob was no idiot. He understood how these things worked. There was a good chance that the universe had predicted Bob would come to this conclusion. In which case, there was a real possibility that the whole achievement was merely a setup to encourage Bob to willingly drench himself in warm mud. Really what had the world come to? Bob remembered fondly the bath he had been teleported from. Hot water, bubbly soup, clean, white porcelain. But this was no warm bath. This was a cruel, harsh muddy world. Bob was no fool. Bob was no coward. Well maybe a little. Fear kept a man alive. And Bob wanted to survive. Bob was going to survive. He hadn''t quite given up all hope of finding a second copy of Jonny the Man and somewhere a good dog was waiting for him. Good men don''t keep good dogs waiting. Even so, even so¡­ Why did it have to end up like this? Bob gathered up a handful of mud. His childish curiosity got the better of him and he squeezed the mud between his fingers. It squealed unpleasantly as liquid mud dribbled down his fingers. If this was some kind of practical joke, he threatened the empty air, before lathering the mud generously on his upper back, along his shoulders, up his neck, areas that had been largely shielded from the splash. He felt the mud slipping over him; the rank smell, that unpleasant, almost offensive light brown. He wondered how much longer he could bear it. His inner arm, his thighs, his chest, wiping mud slime all over himself. He wondered if he¡¯d ever cleaned himself with soap as thoroughly as he did now. And then, the fateful sound: Ping
Achievement Upgraded! Muddy - > Very Muddy If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Description: This didn¡¯t happen accidentally Achieve more than 90% mud coverage of total body surface area. Effect: A trivial bonus to base stats when covered in mud
He sighed; was this happiness, relief, hopelessness? Everyone does a lot of meaningless things in their life¡ªbut even so, there are some things that we have to believe have meaning, those bedrocks upon which we build our character. And Bob could not have withstood the knowledge that he had muddied himself, literally and spiritually for naught. Now to go all the way. Bob spent about five more minutes, dutifully rubbing mud over his body. Between the toes, under the armpits, around his face and nose, between the eyebrows and the eyes; but no notification came. Maybe 90% was the limit. But how could he know unless he tried? Was this what heaven wanted to see? Was this the will of God? He positioned himself, a deep pool of mud on the ground in front of him. There was no other way. Bob knew this. Bob wished it wasn¡¯t so. But Bob knew. There are hard truths out there. ¡°What a cruel and unfeeling God,¡± Bob shouted as he plunged himself headfirst into the mud, writhing about, turning, soaking his back, drowning in mud, but there was no notification, no enlightening ping. Bob sat up, wiping mud out of his eyes and spitting mud onto the ground. He looked at his brown hands, at his brown legs, at his brown chest, despairing, cursing the universe; the trees were laughing at him; the grey sky was laughing him; the dead boar with its glassy eyes was laughing at him. And then he saw it, a pale, skin-colored spot in the crook of his elbow, he must have been keeping his arm bent. He picked up a dollop of mud and rubbed it in. Ping! What a beautiful sound.
Achievement Upgraded! Very Muddy - > Mud Monster Description: More mud than man Achieve 100% (rounded) mud coverage of total body surface area. Effect: A minor percentage bonus to base stats when covered in mud
He grinned muddily. And he did feel a little stronger; his mind too a little sharper¡ªthe skeptical part of himself scoffed. It was all a self-fulfilling prophecy combined with a flood of endorphins on learning that his efforts hadn¡¯t been wasted. But Bob chose to be an optimist. Still thank God that¡¯s over. He settled himself back down in his spot against the tree, picked up one of the apples lying on the ground (it was too late to worry about the mud) and started munching. Somehow these apples always made him feel a little better. He opened the next notification.
Achievement: Lucky Description: We both know you should have died there¡­ Effect: A trivial bonus to Luck
Bob didn''t appreciate the universe''s tone. Didn''t the universe know that everything had been occurring to plan, occurring to schedule even? Look here. He''d just taken the first couple hours to indulge in reading and once the rain had ruined the book, he dispatched the boar in short order. Pure skill if you asked Bob. But what idiot would say no to a little more luck? "Luck me up!"
Challenge One Completed! Congratulations. Final Grade - E Current pass percentage: 71% Please continue to next challenge
"Final Grade E? Bullshit. Come on, be reasonable." Had the universe accounted for extenuating circumstances? He¡¯d been teleported directly from the bathtub with nothing but a book in his hand. Somewhere, he knew, an active duty solider had arrived in full army camo, with an assault rifle, pistol, knife, pack of supplies and just stomped that boar. He looked at his fantasy paperback which rain and mud had turned into an unreadable mess of wet pulp. How could the two be compared? The mere fact that he survived should have warranted at least a C grade. It had taken nothing short of a miracle. He still couldn¡¯t believe his luck, cough, his skill and resourcefulness. The boar had practically defeated itself. He wanted a reevaluation. He demanded a reevaluation. The line with his grade flashed and the letter E returned boldened. Broken system. Biased. It was always the same. Still, at least he was alive, that was what mattered. The ground in front of him had been illuminated and the lights formed a path leading deeper into the forest. The system could really use some lessons in subtlety. Follow the pretty lights to your happy place. Bob got to his feet. He braced himself. He was up for a challenge. He was always up for a challenge. He ate challenges for breakfast. The system wanted to give him a challenge. Well challenge away. Do your worst. Double challenge. Triple challenge. Four back-to-back challenges. A challenge marathon. Bring it on. Bob was ready. Bob was born ready. Not. Stupid system. Did it think Bob was just going to march off as he was? Bob had learned his lesson. The lesson of mud and discomfort. He wasn''t going to get slapped with another in-the-bath penalty. No matter how sweetly the system guided him forward with its fairy lights. Bob had some preparations to attend to. Chapter 6 - Herculean Fashion Bob had no idea what the next challenge was going to be. Maybe it would be combat based. Maybe a test of endurance. Maybe a challenge for the wits. And Bob had no idea where the next challenge would take place. Maybe in a desert. Maybe on a mountain top. Maybe in a five star hotel. Of course, he had preferences. He wasn''t indifferent. If the system had a suggestion box, he''d go ahead and write down: "what about a quiet game of go-fish in the penthouse suite?" Everyone can surely agree that would push a man to the limits of his intellect and daring. Go Fish! Bob didn''t know what was coming, but he knew what he needed. You only have to get caught out naked in the rain once. All the rest of your life you''ll carry the scars. Goal number one, the key to both his future physical and emotional comfort was, drum-roll, clothing. A man couldn¡¯t feel quite easy in his mind unless he had something to protect his manhood from the mischances of fortune. It''s instinctual. A man just feels vulnerable, exposed. He looks around his shoulder a little more. Everything has that added tint of danger. Not to mention the fact that he was cold, wet and miserable. Where could Bob acquire himself some new clothing? Bob''s eyes fell on the fallen beast and lit up with a glimmer of greed and envy. "What a fine fur cloak you have. It looks mighty warm if you don¡¯t mind my saying. May I touch it? Oh, why, how soft and silky, just divine. And well¡­ I expect you shan¡¯t be needing it any longer. You don''t mind, do you? The spoils of war, you say. Most philosophical. Well then," Bob mentally rolled up his sleeves, "don''t mind if I do. " Bob tracked down his hunting knife. He might have been grinning predatorily to himself, but thankfully no one was around to see. He gave the weapon a cursory wipe on some leaves (it was going to get dirty again) and knelt down over the body. That was where he stopped. Now, as chance would have it, Bob was neither butcher, nor hunter, cook nor generally skilled at detailed work. He¡¯d never even seen a boar¡¯s corpse before, let alone watched someone skin one. He almost wished he¡¯d been a little more voracious in his youtube diet. In summary, it would be fair to say that Bob had zero relevant experience for the task he was about to attempt. But then, he figured, how hard it could it be? He rolled the boar over (not without significant huffing and puffing¡ªit was a fat monster). Then he mounted himself up onto the beast''s belly. He clasped the knife in both hands like some ritual priest about to prepare a sacrifice. The knife stabbed down and slid smoothly into the animal''s body. The sensation that pulsed back up through his hands and arms almost had him throwing up on the spot. The whole process seemed appallingly gruesome. He was desecrating the poor creature. Bob did his best to stick it out, to act unconcerned, to embody the rugged outdoors man, but the blade had gone in a little too deep and when blood and guts started to float up out of the wound and puddle around his feet, it was too much. He threw up everywhere. The dozen or so apples he managed to put away all came up in a half-digested mush. Blood and mud and sick. What do you know? Turns out sick floats on mud. Must have a lower density. Truly the world is full of mysteries. Bob gave himself a five minute break. Washing himself off (in the mud) as best as he could. It gave him time to think about his process. And he thought he knew where he¡¯d gone wrong. The mistake was starting with the stomach. Don¡¯t know why he¡¯d thought that was a good idea. No, the back was the way. He huddled over the animal and rolled it back over. This time he made sure to cut a good deal shallower. He managed to sheer off a little square of flesh and hair. Bob examined his handiwork and was only a midlly discouraged to discover that the reverse side of his cloth patch was dripping wet with blood. Either way he hung it over a low branch to dry and returned to the good work. Unfortunately, things went downhill from there. That one square had taken him 15 minutes and cost him a heavy psychological toll that he¡¯d probably be paying back most of his adult years. On his next attempt the knife caught in something and he made an awful mess wrenching the damn thing out. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. It was to the point that he was having difficulty finding a clean patch of skin to carve. Truth be told, Bob was losing hope. Why was this so hard? He scratched his head. You¡¯d think a college-educated, 21st century human would be able to figure out how to skin a dead animal. And you¡¯d be wrong. Bob stepped back and surveyed the object that had once been a boar. It had certainly seen better days. So had Bob for that matter. No, no, he''d have to give the whole thing up. A great shame, Bob thought, because he¡¯d rather fancied draping the boar skin around his neck, in what might be called Herculean fashion. But it wasn¡¯t to be. When the animal kingdom fails, a man must turn to the plant kingdom. He¡¯d just quickly weave together something from the leaves. Five minutes were enough to enlighten him. Five minutes to know body and soul the utter futility of the endeavor. Where on earth did Adam and Eve learn their vine-craft? This stuff was completely unworkable. The leaves just crumbled into dust and fell to the ground when he tried to weave them together. He didn¡¯t enjoy feeling like he was inferior to the first man. Shouldn¡¯t humanity have progressed some over the last couple millennium? Blast and damnation, Bob needed to recalibrate his expectations. What did he really need? A dinner jacket with tie and dress trousers? One thing only was absolutely indispensable: a loincloth. And see he had his little patch of boar skin, just the right size, which thank the gods had mostly dried (though without losing its wet, organic feeling that made him shudder at the touch). Bob reckoned they must leave these skins to dry for a week or so and not 45 minutes, but who had the time for that? Progress. Now all he needed was a way of fixing the cloth in place. That should be dead simple, right? He eyed the piles of crumbled grasses and leaves at his feet. Yes he was not about to braid himself together a rope. Clothes really were needlessly complicated weren''t they? Every step of the way, he found himself stymied by technological impossibles. He scratched the old noggin. Might as well go full tribal at this point. He found himself a long, supple branch and snapped it off. The length was well judged and the branch bent nicely around his waist. Yes, this¡¯ll do the trick. He made two small holes with the tip of his knife in his home-cut leather. Through these he slid both ends of the branch and then stepped inside the creation. The last thing was to tie it off. All done. True craftsmanship this. He waited a couple moments. Any second now. Come on, come on. Where was it? Bob folded his arms. No system ping? No congratulatory achievement on creating this glorious piece of kit from locally-sourced materials? The universe appeared unimpressed. You can¡¯t please everyone. What mattered was that the garment fulfilled its intended purpose and this it did splendidly, well, mostly, as long as he could keep his adversaries directly in front of him and didn¡¯t move around too much. The cloth was prone to flap up and down or to get shifted around. It also didn''t hold up well against a strong breeze. If he was honest with himself, it was significantly less comfortable than being naked. Not to mention it had taken him over an hour of hard, sweaty work. Meh, it was better than nothing. Barely. He looked over at the glowing path leading to the next challenge. The glow was steadily increasing in intensity. It was definitely not Bob¡¯s imagination. The universe was getting impatient. And here Bob had been wanting to sit down and have a little rest. But he didn¡¯t know what would happen if he got left behind in this forest. And he did not particularly want to find out. He slid his hunting knife into his makeshift belt and then quickly slid it out again. That seemed like the wrong place for a blade. He¡¯d stumble, nick himself and bleed to death on the ground after three steps. No, he¡¯d keep the knife in his hand where he could keep an eye on it. Thank you very much. He did, however, gather up as many apples as he could carry. They were tasty and nutritious and things just didn¡¯t seem as bleak while he was eating them. With great regret, he left behind the paperback. It hurt him deeply. But the thing wasn¡¯t even readable and he couldn¡¯t let himself be bogged down by objects of purely sentimental value. Things were serious and Bob needed to man up. Off we go. He hobbled forward. Except, strangely, his ankle didn''t hurt that much. Actually it felt perfectly fine. It was unbelievable. To fall from that height and be practically uninjured. Truly, he was one lucky son of gun. And so with a stack of apples balanced precariously in his arms and the knife in his right hand, he shuffled off. The path quickly brought him to an open doorway. A portal to some black, empty space. Nothing good was waiting for him on the other side, that much he was sure of. All the same, with a deep sigh, Bob stepped through. Chapter 7 - Waiting for Death He was standing in a windowless room; it was completely dark, a pitch, molten dark, the kind that seemed to have a solidity to it, like he were standing at the bottom of a deep ocean. And then, pop, a flicker of light, a flame, a circle of orange and red shadows; a candle had suddenly burst into life. That is not suspicious at all, Bob commented under his breath, arms full of apples, tribal loincloth chafing against his business. Bob waited a few moments, just in case something else was about to happen. When nothing did, he gingerly approached the light. Ouch! He¡¯d smacked his foot against something hard and all his apples cascaded out onto the floor; the whole room started to shake as the candle tottered on its stand a moment before regaining its balance. Bob sighed loudly, trying to calm himself, his big toe throbbing angrily. How he wanted to howl, but fear is the mother of all motivations. This was why mankind invented shoes, Bob grumbled, I¡¯ll come back for the apples. Stepping around the obstacle, he made it to the room¡¯s center, the flame glowing just in front of him. He reached out and lifted up the candle: a long, thin pillar of white wax, decorated with spiraling patterns and held up by a silver candlestick.
Challenge Two (2/4): Escape the Room!
The candle had been standing on a little side table (his enemy in the darkness), beside a brown leather armchair. On the table was a wooden box. The box was filled with candles, all neatly arranged in rows, but of varying heights. Half-used, Bob thought, judging from the lips of melted wax on their heads. Had other people already cleared the room? It seemed unnatural somehow. He counted five candles in the box, so six in total if he included the one in his hand. The side table had a little drawer built into it. Inside there were a few yellow pencils, a rubber, a ball point pen, a little plastic ruler, a small bottle of super glue, some sellotape, a protractor and compass, a screwdriver and a pair of heavy-duty scissors. Next to the pencil case was a tin of crayons. The name, ¡°rainbow crayons,¡± was written in large multi-colored letters across the front over a picture of nine-colored crayons. He flicked open the tin. Of the nine cylindrical slots, the first five were empty. The remaining four were filled with neatly sharpened crayons. Another curious coincidence. Underneath the tin was an exercise book. Bob picked it up: squared paper with a page for a name at the front; he flicked through the pages looking for some clue, but they were all blank. Bob replaced the exercise book and closed the drawer. He moved over to the armchair, candlestick in hand. Brown, faded leather, it looked comfortable, fancy even, the kind you might see in an old-fashioned public library. He patted the seat bottom. It was soft and plump, just the kind to slump down into. A sizable portion of Bob¡¯s mind argued, quite reasonably, that he ought to sit down and have a rest, regain his strength, steady his nerves; he¡¯d earned at least that much. But the smaller, more rational part of Bob¡¯s mind protested that he had yet to find even an exit from the room, let alone a way of escaping. Somehow, rationality won out. Bob groaned and resigned himself to the inevitable. Bob first swept the small area around the table and chair. He knelt down and examined the floor. It was all grey, stone tiles. Nothing out of place. Next Bob poked his head under the side table. He swept his arm underneath the armchair. He stood up. He pulled out the chair¡¯s cushions. He searched in the corners. He looked everywhere he could think of. There was nothing to find. Bob knew what came next. Into the darkness, dun, dun, dun¡­ Was Bob afraid? He¡¯d seen worse. He¡¯d faced worse. He was a survivor of the first challenge, slayer of the mighty boar, heaven-anointed ¡°Mud Monster¡±, so of course, Bob was afraid, very afraid. Escape rooms don¡¯t usually have traps do they? Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Bob had come upon the table and chair from the side. If he called his starting position south, the chair faced east. He decided to head west (see they''d expect him to go east, to discover what the chair was facing). He took a few hesitating steps and after a couple paces he reached a stone wall. It was formed of irregular stone blocks held together by grayish mortar. He made a quick search of the wall. He didn¡¯t exactly know what he was looking for, but he expected he would know it if he saw it. He saw nothing so either his assumption was bad or it was just a blank wall. Time would tell. He followed the wall north, keeping one hand against it, while the other held the candlestick out in front of him. The candle was burning merrily. There''s something hypnotically beautiful about a live flame. Bob soon arrived at a corner and turning with the wall, he made his first real discovery: a heavy, oak doorway reinforced with iron bands. Not the kind of door you force open. To make matters worse, a thick metal bar was stretched across the door. Where a handle ought to have been, there was an iron case chained shut with a thick padlock. Bob would have to unlock the chain, open the case and then unbar the door. After that, it should be as easy as walking through. On that note, Bob gave a hopeful tug on the chain. The clink of reinforced steel rings. Nope, that was not coming undone anytime soon. What? You don''t know if you don''t try. Well here was the way out. Progress. Bob lifted up the padlock and examined it. It was a bulky brass body attached to a steel loop. The keyhole was a narrow slit, thinning at the end. Conclusion: he was looking for a traditional, pin-tumbler key. Roger that. Bob kept moving along the north wall. The wall cornered and he turned with it. If his mental map checked out, he should now be on the east wall. That would mean the chair and table were a couple paces directly behind him. He stayed close to the wall as he explored forward. He arrived at a big stone hearth. Bob nodded to himself. That made sense. A comfortable armchair belonged in front of a fireplace. He leaned down. A metal grate was positioned on the hearth floor. Under the grate were what looked to be the remains of an old fire. White ash was smeared around and there were a few, misshapen pieces of partially burnt wood. The candle flickered suddenly; a cold draft had swept down the chimney. Bob hurried to shield the sputtering flame. The light steadied. Phew¡­ He might have been stuck here in that pitch darkness. His imagination ran ahead of him: to be trapped alone in this room, these stone walls, cold and voiceless, swallowed by the impenetrable darkness, only waiting for death, without hope, but unharmed, untouched, alive and waiting for death; he shuddered; what was this new chill he felt in the air? He looked with wide eyes at the fragile candle-flame. He had burned down half the stick already. Half the stick! There were only five more left. He was running out of time. He finally noticed the trap. It was so obvious, so blindly obvious and he was walking around like a fool. You couldn''t muddle your way to the answer. You weren''t allowed to try and try and try again. Six candlesticks. Only six. Six measly pillars of wax. How long was that? How long had he already been here? Three minutes. Five minutes. Less, more. How long did he have left? And every moment, his precious seconds were burning away, melting down and evaporating into a trail of indifferent smoke. The darkness seemed to push against the feeble candle light, eyeing Bob with a devouring hunger, a prowling, predatory gleam, a monster waiting to pounce. He was wasting time. He had to hurry. He needed to act. Bob felt panic growing inside him. Panic, blind and all-consuming. Bob hadn¡¯t been claustrophobic before, but now the walls seemed to press on him. He felt strangely dizzy, though he¡¯d been fine a moment ago. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He was hyperventilating. He couldn''t catch his breath, even as his lungs heaved and pumped. He shivered with a sudden cold and then his head was on fire. He was wasting time. He didn''t have time to panic. He had to hurry. He needed to act. There had to be a way out. A shortcut. The fortress door was a distraction. He''d never make it through in time. Up the chimney. Jealously guarding the candle, Bob ducked his head under the mantlepiece and looked up. It was narrow and there was no sky on the other side. He squeezed in deeper. Could he shimmy through? Could he get out that way? No, no, no. The air was thick with old dust and cobwebs. It stuck to the back of his throat and suddenly he was coughing and choking. It all just brought up more ash from the grate below in a vicious cycle. Bob quickly pulled his head back; too quickly as he got a nasty jolt on the top of his head from the mantelpiece and the candle fell to the floor. Chapter 8 - Traps within traps What was happening? The candlestick was on the ground, the candle gasping for breath, as Bob stood there, his head pounding, struggling to understand, and then in a flash, he dove down, but he fumbled the stick, he was making things worse. The flame flickered, an eternal moment of darkness, and then came back to life. Bob was sitting on the floor, panting, as he protected the infant flame. But he didn¡¯t have time to sit here, he couldn¡¯t wait, he had to act. The southern wall was lined with bookcases. They were all expensive-looking, leather hard-cover volumes, about the same size and make. The spines had no inscription, so the eye saw only a hodgepodge of different colored leather: reds, greens, whites, blues, even some purples and yellows; they were all jumbled together without apparent order. Bob pulled a book down, laid it out on the lip of the shelf and opened it. The book was empty: blank page after blank page ¡ª funny that. Invisible ink? Had he just gotten unlucky? He tried another and another and another and... this one had text. He brought the candle closer as he made to read the words. Only they didn¡¯t make any sense. The text looked like English, at least in so far as the Roman alphabet was used and the rough spacing and alignment seemed familiar. But all the words were meaningless, unpronounceable, like someone had taken English sentences and shuffled the letters around. Bob groaned. There was some clue in there, no mistake. You didn¡¯t set up a bookshelf full of coded books without having a definite purpose, that and a lot of free time. Tragically, Bob didn¡¯t count code breaking among his varied and numerous talents. Worry was gnawing on the edges of his mind. He didn''t get it. He couldn''t see the way out. And he had so little time. Fear had settled on his shoulder like some evil demon. And every step, it grew heavier and heavier, dragging him into the ground. His thoughts came all lumpy and disordered. He wasn''t thinking straight. He wasn''t thinking straight to the point that even he himself could tell that he was thinking straight. Maybe he hadn''t been thinking straight this whole time. He might be about to make some kind of terrible mistake. Wait. Maybe he already had. Bob had started to sweat. He sweated as he shivered in the cold room. He kept telling himself to slow down, but his heart wouldn''t stop shouting. He carefully replaced both books. Order might be important. Bob came to another ninety-degree turn. He''d circuited the room. He was at the south-west corner. A few steps back, a turn northward, three more paces, and he would''ve returned to the central island with the table and chair. Crunch. His foot had landed on something hard but squashable. Bob screamed. Spiders, cockroaches, caterpillars, centipedes; a warm liquid spilled out of the carcass, Bob staggered back, waving the candle in front of him. A tangy, acidic smell filled the air. Wait a moment. Bob sighed and shook his head. He really wasn''t thinking straight. That must have been one of the apples. Bob took a few moments to gather up all of the loose fruit he could find and lined them up on the side table. Good job Bob, Good job, a few hiccups along the way, but mission complete. Sure, mission complete: he had no idea how to get out, had learned practically nothing and just bumbled around in the dark, dropping candles and stepping on produce. So much for steadying one''s nerves with a little self-congratulation. Bob could be really unkind to Bob sometimes. What Bob really needed was a long sit and a little think. He looked longingly at the armchair, he couldn''t imagine a greater temptation, there was such an inviting quality to its curved lines and soft outline. Bob positioned himself above the seat. Only a moment. Stop Bob! You''re not thinking straight. Yes I am. Bob I''m warning you. Shut up Bob. Bob... Yes? You''ll doze off in thirty seconds and wake up in a dark room. Why you gotta spoil everything? Step away from the chair, Bob. Fine, you win. Bob snatched up a pencil and exercise book from the drawer and parked himself unhappily on the cold floor, mumbling to himself about nobody giving him a chance. The childish exchange helped calm Bob down a little and after thirty seconds, he had settled down enough to start on a rough drawing of the room. The room was basically square: four ninety-degree walls, each about ten paces across. To the north was the doorway, to the east the fireplace, to the south the bookcases and to the west¡­ He hadn¡¯t found anything to the west, only blank wall. That might be a sign he had missed something there. Bob marked all of this on his map. In the center of the room, roughly equidistant from each wall was the table and chair. The chair faced east, namely at the fireplace, while the side-table stood to the chair¡¯s right, so towards the bookcases. Was Bob forgetting anything? He decided to add a detailed description of the northern door, as well as a note on the empty and nonsensical books. Bob surveyed his map. The conclusion was obvious. There was only one way out. The door. The door locked by a key. A key he needed to find. So start looking. Except, somehow, you know, Bob couldn''t shake the feeling he was forgetting something, something important even, very important; Bob bit his lip. He always did this. Bob only forgot the most important, the most unforgettable things. It was like his mind was putting it aside to make sure he wouldn¡¯t overlook it, but with the unfortunate consequence that he couldn¡¯t find it when he looked for it. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. He glanced up at the candle. Fire helps a man think. Yes, yes, he murmured to himself, something to do with the candle. He¡¯d set the candlestick on the side table as he worked on the map. He looked blankly at it. Only a few centimeters of wax left, he observed calmly, only a few centimeters¡­ Good god! Bob grabbed the next tallest candle from the box and leaned the wick into the flame. How many times was this going to happen to him? The wick caught. Bob sighed. He blew out the flickering stump and exchanged it for the newly lit candle. Time, yes, that¡¯s what he was forgetting. He only had so much time and how was he spending it? Sitting cross legged on the floor, pleasantly drawing little maps. How long did he have left? Five candles worth, but they all looked shorter than the first one. That had lasted maybe ten, fifteen minutes. So best case he had 45 minutes and worst case closer to 30. In that time, he needed to find the key to the padlock and then solve whatever waited in the case beneath. What was the chance that the key alone would be enough to open the door? Ha, if only he could be so lucky. Bob nervously paced around the room. Why wasn¡¯t he looking for the key? He needed to start looking. No, there wouldn¡¯t be enough time. It was a trap. Focus, Bob, focus. I need more time. The candles won¡¯t be enough. He turned suddenly towards the fireplace and then at the bookcases full of books. That was it. He needed to start a fire. He took up the candlestick, stepped forward to the bookshelf, reached out to pull down a book and paused. No, Bob be smart about this. Do you think the books were placed here without purpose? There¡¯s some secret to them. What if you burn the book that holds the clue to the escaping? You mustn¡¯t burn them. You mustn¡¯t. Traps within traps. Why was this place so uncooperative? Burn them and you¡¯ll have time to find the key, but you won¡¯t be able to get past whatever lies behind the case. Tricky, tricky, Bob folded his arms, thinking. There was so little time. What about the side table? Yes, yes, that could work. Bob eyed the side table. The legs were thin, the drawer hollow, it would burn well enough, Bob wasn¡¯t worried about that, but would it give him enough time? Maybe an extra twenty minutes. He could even use the exercise book pages for kindling. Twenty minutes, minus however long it took him to strip apart the desk and start the fire. Bob looked longingly at the bookcases. Four hundred books. That would take hours to burn through. But he mustn¡¯t. He knew he mustn¡¯t. And then there was the frame itself, nice, thick wood, the shelves too. Bob snapped his fingers. The shelves, yes. He brought over a pencil and started to work clearing out the top shelf. On the cover page of each book, he wrote out, the bookcase number, the shelf number and the position within the shelf, going from east to west and top to bottom. Bob didn¡¯t know if the order mattered, but better safe than sorry. Once he¡¯d emptied the top shelf, he grabbed his knife and cut around the screws securing it to the frame; the shelf fell down onto the books below. Bob started chopping and smashing the shelf into smaller pieces and then stacking the pieces in the grate. He also picked up and reused the leftover wood he''d noticed earlier. The more the merrier. Finally, he tore out several pages from the exercise book, crumbled them up and scattered them under the logs. The moment of truth. He carefully lit the corner of a crumbled sheet with the candle flame. Flames licked up the dry paper. Bob didn¡¯t expect the wood to catch at once. No, he was eyeing a small chunk, at the bottom of the stack. There he rolled page after page, ensuring a continuous stream of fire, as he carefully blew fresh oxygen into the flames. The wood blackened, cracked and then caught. Bob kept going, feeding the fire with paper and oxygen and readjusting the other planks so they would soak in the updraft. A few minutes later and he had a happy, crackling fire. He sat cross-legged, giving himself a moment to relax; he snuffed out the candle with thumb and forefinger. No reason to waste good wax. He was safe now. He had fourteen more shelves he could burn, and if it came to it, the frame itself. It was a weight off his mind, not to have his life depending on the whims of flickering, fragile drop of flame. He''d done it. Intellectual giant over here. He''d bested the time trap. Bob Brown wasn''t going down easy. The light from the fire was much brighter than the lone candle. He could see almost the whole room, excepting a few dark corners. Now he would rest, warm the cold out of his bones, maybe close his eyes, let the mud dry and crack. He was just making his way back to the armchair, which seemed almost to be calling out for him, when he caught sight of some dark lines on the ceiling. He frowned. Had they been there before? He pushed over the armchair a little, climbed up on top and examined the markings. There was no mistaking the thing. It was a trapdoor. He pushed on the door. Nothing happened. He pushed harder. Still nothing happened. He noticed a little slot in the bottom corner, like an oddly shaped hole, roughly square but with uneven depths and slopes inside. A keyhole perhaps? But not for an ordinary key. Bob tilted his head, trying to get a better look. From the shape of the hole, Bob guessed he¡¯d need a kind of towered block with four quadrants. Hm¡­ Now that he thought about it, that wood at the bottom of the grate had had rather a curious shape to it. He jumped down and hurried over to the fireside. Ah yes, fire; it wasn¡¯t simply a matter of reaching a hand inside and feeling about. Where was a poker when you needed one? Not that it would have done him any good. Any wooden keys in that fire had long since lost their cryptographic properties. He slumped down on the floor. An intellectual giant caught bang-snap in a trap. A trap, within a trap, within a trap. Now Bob, what do you think the chance is that that big, scary door is just a dummy and the only real escape was through that trapdoor whose key you just burned? I give it about fifty-fifty at this point. Seems fair. Chapter 9 - Iwt Hnhitb Egxbtg One¡¯s got to make the best of things. So Bob decided to put the trapdoor and the wooden key out of his mind. That enlightened decision may or may not have been preceded by a vigorous attempt to cut open the trapdoor with the hunting knife. Unfortunately, if there was a trapdoor there, which there probably wasn¡¯t, it was fronted by stone or metal shielding and he¡¯d had no luck forcing it open. No ¡ª he mustn¡¯t get distracted. He had two objectives: first, he needed to secure more firewood to make sure the fire didn¡¯t die on him; second, he needed to figure out where the key was hidden and escape the room. Bob pulled out his map and assessed the likely hiding spots. The most obvious suspect was the bookshelf. A thin strip of metal? You could easily slide it between two pages and from the outside it¡¯d be nearly impossible to tell the difference. Even opening the book, you¡¯d have to flick through every page to make sure you didn¡¯t miss it. Perfect. Synergy between objectives one and two. Bob could work efficiently here. Who doesn¡¯t love efficiency? He would have to remove the books anyway to secure the shelves for firewood, so at the same time, he¡¯d check each book for any hidden keys or other secrets. While he was at it, Bob decided he might as well make a chart of the arrangement of the shelves and their contents. Some things you could only see when you had the whole picture in front of you. Bob was very proud of himself when he thought up this plan. He¡¯d start with the stack he¡¯d already emptied and then move systemically down and west. Bob drew out a large graph across two pages of the exercise book. For each book, he would write its coordinates on the cover page, flick through the pages looking for the key, then write down its position in his graph as either an E (empty) or T (text). Finally, he would group the books on the ground based on whether or not they had text. Bob figured there was a good chance the seemingly nonsensical text could be decoded. Otherwise, you know, what was the point? Once he cleared a shelf, he would cut out the wood and pile it beside the hearth, adding more logs to the fire as necessary. It took him a long and boring hour and a half (at least so he guessed) to clear all the shelves. By that time the floor was a maze of stacked books, divided into two large sections, those with text and those without, while the bookcases stood empty like great big, wooden coffins. In that time, he¡¯d needed to burn eight of the fifteen planks. And for all his effort, for all his sweat and suffering, Bob had found¡­ nothing. Or not quite. For one, he had a large and intricate diagram of the original arrangement of the shelves, as well as an impressive collection of statistics. Who does enjoy statistics? Each shelf had exactly seventeen books; Bob didn¡¯t know if that was important or irrelevant, but he made a special note of the fact just in case. 5 bookcases * 4 shelves a bookcase * 17 books a shelf = 340 books total. Again no idea whether that was important or not. Out of these, the vast majority had been empty. In fact, there were only fifteen books with text in the whole collection. Of these, there had been three in each of the five bookshelves; or done by rows, four on the top row, six on the second, four on the third and just one on the bottom. Their relative arrangement in the bookcases didn¡¯t seem to mean anything. At least, even after staring at a picture in his exercise book and experimenting with lines and angles, Bob hadn¡¯t been able to figure anything out. His second acquisition was a little pamphlet. He''d found it stuffed inside an empty volume in the lower, right section of the bookshelves. The pamphlet was vividly colored in green and purple splotches, think trippy leopard print. There was no title on the front and its contents were less than illuminating. Each of its nine pages was absolutely bursting with text, no margins, no spaces or new lines, not an empty spot. The difficulty was that the whole text, without exception, consisted of the single letter J printed over and over and over. JJJJJJJJJ... You get the picture. Bob didn''t know what to make of this. Bob doubted anything could be made of it. In Bob''s opinion, it was the kind of thing he might have thrown in as a practical joke. A complete wildcard just to confuse and befuddle candidates. That didn''t mean he would dismiss the J-pamphlet, the jamphlet, out of hand, only that he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. Lastly and most annoyingly, there had been no key. Bob had been pretty thorough checking; if only because he hadn¡¯t want to have to go over all three hundred and forty books again. He¡¯d even done a sweep of the bookcases after they were emptied, but no key was lying on the ground or trapped in a corner. There had been a little red spot on the wall behind the bottom row of the second bookshelf that looked suspiciously like dried blood and had not come off with rubbing. But he tried to avoid thinking about it. Aside from that, nothing. No the only real discovery was learning that dust and mud stuck together just beautifully. A happy surprise. The absence of a key stumped Bob a little. He didn¡¯t quite know where to look next. He¡¯d searched the side table, top, bottom, inside, outside. He¡¯d got down on his bare knees to peer beneath the armchair. He¡¯d ransacked behind the cushions. He¡¯d doubled back to the west wall, patted it down, examined for hidden joints, stepped back, crossed his arms and searched the blank stone, but saw nothing, save perhaps an oddly mocking expression in the stonework. He¡¯d thought maybe it was at the bottom of the grate and had used a plank to fish around in the depths. That had hooked him only a smear of grey ash. Where else was there to look? Bob had even tried several methods of uncovering invisible ink. He¡¯d heated one of the pages: nothing; he¡¯d taken a rubbing with his pencil looking for imprints on the page: nothing; he¡¯d tried looking through a page while holding it up in front of the fire: nothing (not entirely sure why that should have helped, but worth trying all the same). The books seemed to be just that: empty The only untapped lead was the encoded books. So he ferried the stack of fifteen books in front of the hearth, added a few planks to the fire and plugged himself down on the ground to begin his research. He noticed a few things immediately. For one, all of the books had exactly the same spacing and punctuation; the capitals were in the same places, the lines divided into the same words, the page broken into the same set of paragraphs. A couple of the books were true copies of each other, letter for letter identical. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The natural conclusion, indeed the only explanation that Bob could think of with his limited, mortal mind, was that the base text of all of the books was the same. In other words, there was only one work, but it had been encrypted in many different ways. That meant there should be a mapping between letters that would allow Bob to decode and read the text. Conclusion: Bob was going to have to brute-force the mapping and then translate the text. How many possible mappings could exist? Was it worth wasting time trying to figure out how long and painful the task might take? Yes, yes it was. The first letter could get mapped to twenty six others, the second to twenty five, and so on. That meant twenty six factorial (26!) or 26 * 25 * 24 * ¡­ * 2 * 1. Bob didn¡¯t have his phone on him and he wasn¡¯t about to do that multiplication in his head. But even roughly, there were going to be at least 20 zeroes on that number¡­ Still what other choice did he have? Bob flipped through the book on his lap. Did this volume really have the clue as to the key¡¯s location? Bob was a little skeptical. After all the work was ultimately book length. It had well over two hundred pages of solid text. How long would it take him just to decode the text, let alone somehow parse and interpret a single clue hidden within? His mind was starting to wander a little; it had been another long day and a hopeless, unending task didn¡¯t help. His eyes were drawn to the armchair. It looked especially comfortable with the warm firelight dancing over its cushioning. He might be sitting there, stretching his feet out and letting the warm air bake over them, his toes wiggling happily. He took a step towards the chair. No, Bob, don¡¯t give in. Bob¡¯s eyes had already been gliding peacefully shut as he prepared to drift off into a long and enjoyable slumber with happy dreams of far away places. Wake up! Bob slapped himself lightly on the cheek. He selected the least dirty apple from the side table and bit down. He needed to focus and sugar could only help. Indeed, it seemed to help a lot. Bob saw at once that he¡¯d been going about the decryption process all wrong. Trying to guess the mapping was a fool¡¯s game. He quickly copied out the first page into his notebook:
Iwt Hnhitb Egxbtg Ktghxdc 19.0 Xcigdsjrixdc Ltardbt id iwt xcitgktght! Lt pgt staxvwits id wpkt ndj. Ndj pgt iwt 73,926iw xcwpqxits eapcti id qt xcrdgetgpits. Bpcn Rdcvgpijapixdch. Eatpht jht iwxh egxbtg id prfjxgt qphxr upbxaxpgxin lxiw iwt ldgzxcvh du iwt hnhitb. Iwgtt htpih hipcs detc pi iwt qpcfjti du phrtchxdc.
He was looking for patterns, shortcuts, loopholes, anything he could exploit. A number followed by two letters. Suspicious. "73,926th" perhaps. Ok good start, "i" maps to "t" and "w" to "h". What''s this here? A three letter word in the title, "iwt" (th_), beginning with "th", "the" anyone? Ok so "t" goes to "e". Aha, "id" (t_), a two letter word beginning with "t", so "d" goes to "o". Things were going swimmingly. He wondered why he''d thought this was going to be so hard. "du" went to "o_" which had to be "of". Next was "Lt" (_e), that could be "Be" or "We" but at the start of the sentence, "We" seemed more likely. Which meant the "qt" later on was probably "be". The other two letter and three letter words eluded him for a moment until he happened on "lxiw" (w_th). That pretty much confirmed "We" and netted him the vowel "i". Now he could tackle "iwxh" (thi_): "this" and then "jht" (_se): "use". After that it was only a matter of time, "hnhitb" (s_ste_) => "system", "Ltardbt" (We__ome) => "welcome." He had all the vowels but "a" at this point. None of the remaining words were obvious, but Bob¡¯s deductive reasoning was not to be stopped. He eyed "qphxr" (b_si_) with the discernment of a trained professional. The second letter had to be a vowel, ergo, ¡°p¡± mapped to ¡°a¡±; that gave ¡°basi_¡± which could only be ¡°basic¡±. Context proved enough for the rest. Now to see if all this effort had been worth anything.
The System Primer Version 19.0 Introduction Welcome to the interverse! We are delighted to have you. You are the 73,926th inhabited planet to be incorporated. Many Congratulations. Please use this primer to acquire basic familiarity with the workings of the system. Three seats stand open at the banquet of ascension.
Interesting stuff, if rather a little mundane. Bob drew out a little alphabet to aid with further decoding. A - L, B - M, C - N, D - O¡­ Wait a moment, Bob thought he smelled a pattern here. It looked like all the letters had just been shifted around the alphabet. Yes, rather a simple pattern this. He probably should have figured it out a little bit quicker. Nah, it had been super difficult. "A" needed to be moved 15 spaces to reach ¡°L¡± so this book was a fifteen-shift. He took up another book with text and compared the first lines. This one was a seven-shift. All the others followed the same pattern: identical base text with differing shift numbers. He took out his exercise book and the little rubber from the pencil case. He carefully rubbed out each T (text) and replaced it with the encoding number for the book in question. Bob liked to do things properly. That sorted, Bob got back to the business of decoding. On the next page was a table of contents:
  1. Stats
  2. Classes
  3. Companion Objects
  4. Skills
  5. Achievements + Titles
  6. Quests
  7. Levelling
  8. Evolution
  9. Settlements
  10. The System
Classes, oh yes, Bob liked the sound of that. He wanted something appropriately epic and destructive. Inferno Master or Volcano Berserker. The kind of class that commands instant respect and background dread. He flipped to the chapter and started reading:
So you think you''re an adventurer. Well I''ll be the judge of that. At the end of the system initiation, sentients are presented with class options based on their performance. Each class is a blueprint for growth, dictating stat increases per level and unlocking a specific ability tree.
Bob closed the book and groaned. "Class options based on their performance..." Bob wasn''t going to end regretting that first E, would he? Of course not, he''d be sure to do splendidly in upcoming challenges. This is Bob Brown we''re talking about here. Now where was that bloody key? A system primer documenting the world outside was great and all, but here and now, on the clock, in a locked room, this wasn¡¯t really the information he was looking for. He needed a physical key. A strip of metal with the right shape to open the padlock. How much time and energy had he wasted on decoding this book and all for some bonus prize of a post-initiation world, a world he was feeling less and less confident in ever reaching. There goes his only lead. What a joke, honestly, what a bloody joke? If the books were a dead end, Bob couldn¡¯t even think of what else to try. Had the moment finally come? Would he at last be allowed to slump down in a comfortable armchair and pity himself? Screw it. Screw it all. He plopped himself down in the chair and leaned back. He needed a break. Sometimes a man just needs a break. Chapter 10 - Mathematical Hocus-Pocus The chair should have been comfortable. Everything pointed towards comfort. The material was fine, the texture good, the angle sculpted to the human form. And yet, somehow, somehow, he couldn¡¯t seem to manage it. The back was¡­ lumpy. He adjusted the cushions. He shuffled around. He made a valiant effort. He fought the good fight. He told himself he¡¯d forget it in five minutes. Five uncomfortable minutes later, it was all he could think about. And the only thing that kept him in the chair was a powerful, overwhelming impulse to laziness. He sat there, undergoing what amounted to psychological torture from the inescapable hard spot that jammed into his back. He managed five more minutes of utterly unpleasant and unrewarding relaxation. It was the most difficult thing he¡¯d ever done. But that was it. That was the line. He¡¯d had enough. He jumped up, threw the cushion on the ground, and started patting down the chair-back. A tricky rascal. You couldn¡¯t tell anything just by patting. The thing was nestled behind thick layers of cushioning. No, it was the only way. Bob reached for the hunting knife. He was getting to the bottom of this, consequences be damned. He plunged the knife into the chair and dragged it down in a long, diagonal slash. White stuffing poured out of the wound as Bob thrust his hand into the opening. He ferried about inside, manic in his desire to pin down the evil, little object. He passed over metal springs and waded through cotton padding, until, yes, he had it, a little sharp thing, he jerked it out in triumph, "got you!" And just as he was about to throw it onto the ground and stamp upon the little object, he stopped short. He was holding a small, metal key. His first reaction was annoyance. What was he supposed to do with all this pent up anger? He¡¯d been planning to punish the little object. He¡¯d been planning to cast it to the fire, to spit on it, to curse its maker. But all of that was impossible now. He needed it. His second reaction was annoyance. If he¡¯d only followed his first instinct of slumping onto the comfortable-looking armchair as soon as he¡¯d happened upon it, he¡¯d have found the key in 20 seconds flat. This is what you get for trying to be sensible. This is what you get for trying your best. Hard work be damned. Bob ran a hand over his face. Calm down, Bob. This is a good thing. Here¡¯s the key. You were looking for the key weren¡¯t you. You found it. A good thing. The key fit like a glove and the padlock clicked pleasantly unlocked. Now we¡¯re getting somewhere. He flicked open the box. There was a display panel inside. Six, small dials with numbers on them: 000000. The first five were black numbers on a white background and the last was a white number on black background. The dials were adjustable. He could spin them to any number between 0-9. Below the dials was a big red button with the words: ¡°enter,¡± and next to that was a little window with a number five inside. You didn¡¯t need to be a genius to figure out what this was. A good thing too because nobody had yet called Bob a genius (yet!). What we have here is a six digit combination lock with five guesses. So we¡¯ve got to try and figure out what the combination is. Aha, I knew I hadn¡¯t wasted my time with all of those statistics. Bob spread out the exercise book on the side table and got down to business. The most obvious candidate was the encoding numbers of the encrypted books. Drawn out in graph form (the five shelves and four rows):
1 2 3 4 5
1 12 x 15 15,11 x
2 2 x 5,8 9 14,4
3 20 8,9 x x 19
4 x 1 x J X
Grouping by either row or shelf, there was only one combination that added up to exactly six digits. Coincidence I think not. The third row ¡ª 208919. Wow, he had breezed through this puzzle. No way were participants expected to blaze through the combination like that. Let¡¯s see the system give him an E grade this time. He made his way back to the panel, slotted in the six numbers and slapped down enter. It had been a long journey and he was happy to be done. He thought he¡¯d handled himself pretty well all told. Click. The five in the window next to the enter button rolled down to a 4. Huh, that was unexpected. He reviewed his workings. The calculation was sound. That should have worked, no? Must be something wrong with the mechanism. This old machinery, Bob tutted to himself, even the omnipotent system was trapped beneath the degradation of bureaucracy. Someone somewhere had forgotten to order a new combination lock. If that wasn¡¯t a manifesto on the limitations of true power, Bob didn''t know what was. He double-checked the little digits, making sure to line them all up to a tee. Perfect. Ok, here we go. He pressed enter. The 4 rolled down to a 3. Bob was stunned, floored, absolutely stumped. He needed to sit. He tripped over to the armchair and slumped back. His knife-work had not improved the chair¡¯s comfort unfortunately. He spent a couple more minutes playing around with his little book of statistics, trying to drag out meaning from combinations of figures. What if he multiplied these two numbers together, or summed the digits, what about division, division, yes, ah but the decimal places¡­ When he surfaced enough to hear the absurdity of his reasoning, he grew disheartened. Without truly ridiculous mathematical hocus-pocus, Bob couldn¡¯t lay his hands on another six-digit combination. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He put his head in his hands. It couldn¡¯t be. He wouldn¡¯t believe it. It wasn¡¯t true. Was there really no connection between the books and the combination. The idea was simply frightening. What devilish cunning. To put the whole bookcase there, with its formulas, the mysterious jamphlet, the strange symmetries and then for it to be completely irrelevant to the combination? If there was a God, he was one evil son of a gun. But when truth looks a man in the face, a man ought to gaze defiantly back. So Bob, back to the drawing board. Six, there were six slots, he was looking for something connected to the number six. There must have been a clue somewhere. He gave a lazy gaze around the room. Apples arranged neatly on the side table, a crackling fire, the lines of books on the ground, the box of candles, the empty book frame, the tin of rainbow crayons. Hang on there, how many candles had there been, he checked the box, five, only five, he sighed, except for the one in the stand, five plus one, six. We might be on to something here. Bob pulled over the box and examined it more closely. The bottom was grooved into five channels, each of which held its own candle. And under each candle a number had been printed: 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. The number one was missing, so that must have been the first candle. Bob didn¡¯t think the combination was simply 123456. That was too obvious. The system didn¡¯t make things as easy as that. No rather he suspected they were meant to tell him the order. The code was somehow hidden within the candles themselves. Yes, and now that he thought about it, hadn¡¯t it been a little weird that each candle had a slightly different length. And hadn¡¯t there been a little plastic ruler in the pencil case. He produced the ruler. It was an inch-only ruler. That too was curious. Didn¡¯t rulers typically have both inches and centimeters? A sign maybe? Followed by a second sign, when he measured the shortest candle, he found it was exactly 2 inches. Not roughly, but exactly, 2 inches on the dot. He picked up another, 4 inches, again to the line. He was on the money now, no mistake. The problem, yes, there was always a problem, the problem came from the fact that he¡¯d already consumed one of the candles and partially consumed another. He gave himself a minute to curse the system loudly. Wasn¡¯t there something very wrong with the difficulty settings of this tutorial? How on earth were you supposed to figure out that you weren¡¯t supposed to burn the candle? The candle that was spontaneously illuminated when you entered the room and that provided the only light source in an otherwise pitch black room. If anything, Bob had been lucky to stop burning candles when he did. Without that close call at the fireplace, chances were he would have burned through one candle after another and been trapped in here forever. Now to assess the damage. He measured each of the candles in turn. From shortest to tallest: 2, 4, 5, 6.3 (the partially burnt candle) and 7 inches. He definitely remembered picking the longest candle after the first one burned out, together with the fact that none of the candles had been the same length. He also didn¡¯t think he could have burned through 3 whole inches in the time it took him to get the fire going. That made him pretty confident in assuming the candle¡¯s original height had been 8 inches. The challenge was the first candle. He had never directly compared it to the ones in the box and he¡¯d never given it a proper look, too busy focusing on the rest of the room. It had certainly been tall, hadn¡¯t it, maybe, he thought, hoped, guessed, but not that much taller than the ones in the box, right? Bob had a nagging suspicion that this might have been the reason the lock allowed five guesses. A thought quickly followed by the recollection that Bob had entered the same combination twice on the off-chance that the lock had failed to register the correct combination. Odds he might end up regretting that later? Pretty high. Well he was going to have to swing here either way. He tried to visualize the candle as he¡¯d seen it when he first walked into the room. Bob had never been very good at visualizing things and the exercise did not prove useful here. He thought, on what grounds he wasn¡¯t entirely sure, but he thought the candle couldn¡¯t have be smaller than both of the two taller box candles. That put him in the range of 7 through 10. 11 just seemed too high. He thought he might have remembered if the candle had been three inches higher than any of the others (because Bob was always incredibly perceptive). He leaned over the lock, wouldn¡¯t have minded having 4 guesses about now, would I. He tried the first combination: 7 4 8 5 7 2. He made a little prayer and pushed enter. The now familiar click, as three tracked down to two. Bad news, Bob, bad news. He had only two more guesses. Could the candles be a decoy? Was there something else, something cleaner? The books were out. The drawer was just assorted nicknacks. There were 9 crayons, five missing, four remaining. No, it had to be the candles. Bob thought he had the measure of the escape room by now. And the sheer pleasure of watching a participant bumbling around the room searching for the key as the crucial combination was burning away under their very nose. No, the system could hardly have resisted that. Combined with the ridiculous inch-only ruler and the exact heights of the candles, there could be no other conclusion. A man has to make a stand somewhere, doesn¡¯t he? Two guesses, three choices (unless of course he¡¯d messed up in his reasoning and was already doomed). 8, 9 or 10. He didn¡¯t like 10. There was something inelegant about using the second digit. Sure it made sense, but it was little cheap. Would he stake his life on that? Well he might just have to. So 8 or 9. If 9, they were all be unique numbers, while 8 would see a digit doubled up. A person, Bob thought, would usually prefer unique numbers. The system though. The system would try to subvert expectations. Ok, he knew what he was going to do.
8 4 8 5 7 2
He locked in his numbers. He paused there. He had two guesses he knew. But he didn¡¯t want to have to face that last choice: death or victory. That was a choice that could break a man. He closed his eyes and pushed enter. He waited and there, there it was, the dreaded click. He sighed and opened his eyes. What¡¯s this? Chapter 11 - Game Over The dreaded click. Bob opened his eyes excepting to see his doom, proof that he had chosen wrong, that he was down to his final guess, that the noose had drawn a little tighter. So he was mighty surprised to find something else. The door had... not opened. Instead three more white-on-black dials had appeared. It isn''t over yet? God have mercy on us all. The combination now read:
8 4 8 5 7 2 0 0 0
And worst of all, the height of unfairness, even though he got the combination right, the number of guesses had spiraled down from two to one. Bob felt a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead in the cold room. He¡¯d been very close there, at the very edge. Bob hadn¡¯t known it but he¡¯d already been at death¡¯s door. If he¡¯d chosen wrong, he would have run out of guesses before he''d had a chance to attempt the nine-digit combination. This challenge is impossible, he muttered to himself. 3 more digits, Bob repeated the words to himself like they were some bitter oath against every deity across the cosmos, 3 more digits. But there weren¡¯t 3 more candles were there? He gestured around the room as though his protest might be observed and noted, and someone might take remedial action. How long was this thing going to go on for? He wanted to go home. He wanted to sink down into his sofa, get himself a cold drink, switch on the telly and just forget himself for two or three long hours. What a happy thought. Nine, what were there nine of, that wasn¡¯t so hard. Maybe this one will be easier. The only thing that had anything to do with the number nine was the box of crayons. That had to be the clue. He gave the crayons an optimistic measure with the ruler. The four remaining were all precisely 3.7 inches high. Was he supposed to round? Challenge be damned, if he was going to bet his life on a combination derived from rounding coloring crayon heights. He wasn¡¯t thinking straight. All that time up in a tree. It did things to a man. Bob was tired. How many hours had gone by, he wondered. He sat down in his chair. Coloring crayons, if it wasn¡¯t the height, maybe it had something to do with the color. From left to right, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet and black (he could tell the colors of the missing crayons from the picture on the front of the tin). So it was basically the rainbow with white and black sandwiched on either side. That spelled out: WROYGBIVB or in other words, unpronounceable gibberish. Converting to numbers, 23, 18, 15, 25, 7, 2, 9, 22, 9. Were you supposed to add them all up, maybe stir them together and make a soup or something. A pretty obvious dead end. No, Bob¡¯s experience with the candles had convinced him. Once he found the right answer, it should be obvious. And yet they were color crayons, it had to have something to do with the colors. He refueled the fire with his last few pieces of book shelf. He¡¯d have to tear out the frame next, that or start burning books. He picked up a blue volume from a stack at his thigh and flicked through the pages. He knew it was empty. He just wanted something to fiddle with. He put the book down again and picked up another. This one green and with text. He caught himself at this. He¡¯d noticed the color of the books before, but he¡¯d never really thought of it since. He did a quick survey. There were exactly 9 different colors, each corresponding to one of the crayons. Bingo.
Empty Text Total
W 8 5 13
R 4 3 7
O 8 1 9
Y 5 3 8
G 7 1 8
B 2 2 4
I 37 0 37
V 53 0 53
B 211 0 211
Bob had done it. It had taken him a long time. Far too long, but he¡¯d done it. He glanced down the row of empty totals: 8 4 8 5 7 2. That looked mighty familiar. It was exactly the same sequence that had solved the six digit combination. Now we are talking. Here¡¯s a puzzle worth solving. The second combination was build up on the first. Bob couldn¡¯t ask for a clearer sign than that. No point messing around. Moment of truth. He adjusted the three zeros to the last digit of the empty totals: 7 3 1. The challenge had really pushed him to the ends of his wits and he¡¯d almost given up at several points. But he¡¯d won through at the end and that¡¯s all that mattered. He pushed enter. The familiar click. But he knew this game. He¡¯s seen it before. The 1 shifted to 0, but the top dials all started spinning. Then from left to right, they started to stop one at a time, each face baring a letter: G, A, M, E, space, and then came the four black dials with white, emblazoned letters, O, V, E, R. GAME OVER. Bob panicked. He hammered on the case with the full extend of his feeble strength. He tried forcing the dials back up. He spam clicked the enter button again and again. He took a step back and kicked at the door. Nothing happened. It didn¡¯t make any sense. It couldn¡¯t be a coincidence. The numbers had lined up so neatly. He crumbled up in his chair, defeated, defeated at last. Was this going to be end of everything? Had he missed something? Had he, Bob, Bob the wise, Bob the maker of clothes, had he, could he have missed something? No, impossible, unconceivable, beyond the fabric of reality. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Bob granted himself permission to review his figures and double check the counts. But his addition, as always, was stellar. He reexamined the crayons to make sure he hadn¡¯t mistaken the order. But it was just as he had expected. There were the five blank spaces, white, red, orange, yellow and green, followed by the four crayons, blue, indigo, violet and black. Something caught on Bob¡¯s mind. The first five slots were empty. He went back to the lock. He hadn¡¯t really placed much importance in the fact (who would), but now that he looked more closely, the first five dials were all black letters on a white back, while the last four inverted the pattern. Just like the crayons¡­ That seemed a curious coincidence, no? He pulled up his figures again. Bob scrunched up his eyes and raised his head to the ceiling, grimacing to himself. The sixth row (blue): two empty and two with text. The first five used the empty count and the last four must have needed the text count. So the right combination was 8 4 8 7 5 2 0 0 0. D''argh, the system was laughing at him, he spat out through clenched teeth. Three zeros! It was inconceivable. If he¡¯d only he¡¯d had one more guess. Just one more guess. How close could a man come? Why, oh, why did he have to go and press enter again that first time. He raised his hands to the stone ceiling. ¡°I know the answer now. Give me a chance. Give me one more chance.¡± Heaven was merciless. He retreated back to his chair to ruminate endlessly on his failings. It was so obvious now. So brutally obvious. But now, but now, everything was over. He started throwing books into the fire. What difference did it make? Bob was going to die here. Maybe he¡¯d last a day. He had some apples left. But it wasn¡¯t starvation that he was afraid of. It was the darkness. The darkness that would sweep down over him. He couldn¡¯t bear to die like that in a black, invisible world, drowning in a whirlpool of regret. Maybe there was another way out, some last secret. He stared at his diagrams and calculations. He burned them into his mind. But the book shelf had already given up all its secrets. He threw more and more books into the fireplace like he was trying to frighten away the darkness that crept nearer every moment. The room grew hot and red, angry shadows dancing across the walls. Bob gathered up his possessions. He stacked the apples on the side table. He piled up the system primer, the jamphlet, his exercise book, knife, pencil case. Everything of value. And then he sat in the chair and stared into the fire. Had it been a good life? Bob asked himself. What was a good life after all? It had been a life hadn¡¯t it? He''d read philosophy at uni, but quickly grown discouraged. Nobody cared. The good life, the bad life, the life of pleasure, people had stopped thinking about these things. Bob had followed suit, investing his university years in deepening his familiarity with the local pub scene. Unfortunately, in our current economic climate, that investment had failed to pay dividends. And then what? He¡¯d circled through a few career options, sales, HR, most of them variations on the same core tasks: type words into a computer, sit in on meetings, debate trivial things and listen aimlessly to clients drone on about their needs. He¡¯d finally ended up as a QA engineer. The role minimized meetings and client interactions, while letting him play to his natural strengths: finding small things to complain about. It was dull work, sure. Replaying the same flows over and over with tiny variations, just to search out some crack in the developer¡¯s imagination. But it paid the bills didn¡¯t it? Bob wondered what the demand for QA engineers would be like post-system-initiation. Pretty low no doubt, pretty low. No, now that he thought about it, it hadn¡¯t been a great life. He might¡¯ve made more of himself, he reckoned. Though he couldn¡¯t quite say where he¡¯d gone wrong or really what success was supposed to look like. He wanted to say he¡¯d work harder if he got out of his place. But he didn¡¯t quite know if that was true. What¡¯s the point of trying harder in some ends-meet jobs? Now, maybe, if he could find himself something a little more interesting. Then maybe we¡¯d talk. Then he might just make a name for himself. A shame, almost, that he was going to die here. Just when life had begun to take a more interesting turn. Did he regret anything? He''d wanted to survive. Sure, in the way everybody does. But had he really wanted to live? What did he have to live for? He slumped there in the chair and played back his life to himself. He wasn¡¯t close to his family; his parents lived far away and his little sister had her own family now. He had two good friends, Nate and Joey, well they¡¯d do just fine without him. Nobody really needed him after all. For the best I guess. Wouldn''t want to leave a friend in a bind by dying here would we? And then it hit him. His only true regret, the one that sat with him now in this darkening room. George. The others, they didn''t need him. But George, George was a different story. George lying on bathroom threshold. Good, old George. Bob wished he''d taken that dog for a walk today. At least today. Their last day together. Bob felt like he''d never quite realized it, but how he loved that dog and Bob smiled to himself in spite of everything. How he loved that dog, though, heaven knows, that dog had to be the stupidest, most helpless creature on the face of the planet. Who¡¯d look after him when Bob was gone? Why I bet he¡¯ll just lie there on the bathroom floor waiting for me like some idiot, was there a crack in Bob¡¯s voice, never doubting for a moment that I''ll come back. That was hard. Bob didn¡¯t want that. George could make such a sad face sometimes. When Bob left for work, George would sit by the door and whine, and Bob would have to tell himself that he had to go, that he couldn¡¯t help it. He¡¯d be back, back as quick as he could and he¡¯d bring something for old George. But this time, this time he wouldn¡¯t be back. This time George would wait and wait and Bob wouldn¡¯t come. That was hard. Too hard. Bob got up. He had to give it a last try. For George. For good, old George. Bob had stood up but he didn¡¯t really have any idea of what to do. He puttered over to the doorway and gave the thing a few trial pushes, but no it had not been magically unlocked by the power of friendship. Wasn¡¯t that how these things were supposed to work in stories? "I¡¯m sorry George." What was there left to try? He started slowly dismantling the shelf framing and adding it to the fire. It came down all too quickly and left him staring at more blank wall. No luck. No luck at all. It had been fun while it lasted. He reckoned it was about time for a little nap. He was bone tired. He threw all the wood and most of the books into the grate, sat down in the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes. Chapter 12 - Damned Spot Bob woke up. Yes Bob woke up. It was hard to tell in the pitch black darkness of the room. But there was no mistaking the sensation. A shame really, it would have been easier if he could have just drifted off. It might have been peaceful, quiet, dignified even. But now he would die awake. In the darkness. Stewing in his regrets and poor life decisions. Bob tried to piece together the dream he¡¯d been having. It was something to do with that table of figures in his notebook. The one with the graph of deciphered shift numbers. His mind was foggy with lingering sleep. He almost thought, yes, he had a strong impression he¡¯d found something in them and it was that very discovery that had brought him suddenly to consciousness. But it was dark, so unbelievably, impenetrably dark. Dark like he¡¯d never known in our sleepless cities. Dark to the point of madness. He felt like he was dead. Maybe he was dead. He was trying to remember what it felt like to see. Why he might be anywhere. Somewhere far away, but no, there was the armchair and look here was the side table and that, that must be an apple. The dream was slipping away. It was fading into that strange, unreachable place where dreams go. And with it what he''d found, or thought he¡¯d found. He struggled, trying to tug back his impressions from that inviting place. But he¡¯d been dreaming, it was only a dream, he almost gave up, and then he remembered a golden face and a little brown nose. George was waiting for him somewhere. He made a great effort (lounging in the brown-leather armchair). There had been a code. A code within the code. Yes, he brought up the table in his mind,
1 2 3 4 5
1 12 x 15 15,11 x
2 2 x 5,8 9 14,4
3 20 8,9 x x 19
4 x 1 x J X
Look what happens if you convert them back to letters (1->A, 2->B, ...).
1 2 3 4 5
1 L x O O,K x
2 B x E,H I N,D
3 T H,I x x S
4 x A x (J) X
Stringing them together and reading left to right, you get: LOOK BEHIND THIS A. This ¡°a¡±? What was that supposed to mean? Was he remembering the table wrong? Had there been another row? Or was that final number something else? His notebook was right there. He could reach out and touch it, flick through its pages, but he couldn¡¯t read it, couldn¡¯t confirm or deny his guesses. LOOK BEHIND THIS A. But no, he wasn¡¯t misremembering or forgetting. He¡¯d seared those numbers into his heart. He would be teaching his grandchildren those numbers. It was a clue, a final clue. LOOK BEHIND THIS A. It had to be. It couldn¡¯t be a coincidence, could it? But what did it mean? THIS A. 20-8-9-19 1. Wait a moment, wait a moment. "A" corresponds with 1. 1->A. LOOK BEHIND THIS 1. Oh my god, oh my god, Bob whispered to himself in the dark, there was a secret door. Bob rose unsteadily to his feet. Easy does it now. His heart was pounding. He felt like his whole body was on fire. But if he got turned around now and lost his way, he might never find it. He took a deep breath. He¡¯d waited this long. No point bungling the thing by rushing. His first decision was to bring the side table with him. The table was stocked with all his supplies and possessions. If he found a secret passageway, he wanted to make sure they all got through with him. He gently lifted up the table and took a cautious step forward. Directly his knee knocked into one of the remaining stacks of books and he almost toppled over. No problem, don¡¯t sweat it, he waded forward, starting each step with a low sweeping motion of the knees, designed to clear away any obstacles. He made it to the fireplace. Now all he had to do was follow the wall around the corner and he¡¯d be at the bookshelves. He was looking for a spot on the bottom row of the second bookshelf, four books from the left. He was close now. His heart seemed deafening loud. With hope or fear or just sheer adrenaline he couldn¡¯t say. He got down on hands and knees. This was his last chance. His only hope. And a part of him couldn¡¯t help thinking the decoded sentence was just a soothing fiction he carried over from the dream world. After all, he¡¯d cleared those bookshelves before and with roaring fire in the grate. If there was a secret door he should have found it already. Here was the spot. His hand trembled. It should be just there. And yet, there was nothing. But it had to be. A light, he needed a light, couldn¡¯t he get a light somehow? If only, if only, he said the words with bitter sarcasm. There were no matches, no flint, not even two sticks to rub together. He pushed hard against the spot. He set his back against it and shoved. Maybe there was something written there. A message or directions. But no Bob, you think you wouldn¡¯t have noticed a giant communication scrawled across the wall? No, Bob chewed his lip, it would have to be something small, something you¡¯ve just overlook unless you knew exactly what to look for. Something clicked in Bob''s mind. He remembered. Something small, something you¡¯ve just overlook unless you knew exactly what to look for. He groped about for his knife. There she was. Bob pointed the knife at the mysterious patch of the wall. It was hidden there, somewhere, his secret way out. He just had to find it. It would require a little guesswork in the dark. He couldn''t see what he was doing after all. Trial and error. The engine behind all scientific progress. But he remembered. He wound up his arm and stabbed hard. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The knife seemed to fall into a groove and then catch and rebound back. Ouch, had Bob really needed to stab so hard. He waited. No luck? Nobody gets it on the first try. Bob cocked his arm for another thrust. And then the bookcase wall shuddered. No way, no fucking way. The trembling stopped and Bob thought he was going to cry. An endless moment later and the wall dragged apart and natural light poured through. Bob started to weep. He couldn¡¯t believe it. It was some kind of miracle. Divine intervention. He¡¯d been saved. That little red spot, he¡¯d mistaken it for dried blood, that damned spot, he¡¯d walked pass it a hundred times, ferrying books back and forth, he''d pointed it out, he tried rubbing it off, and and the whole time it had been the switch to a secret door. He''d just to push down into it. Why had he had to suffer some much? He could kill someone. He could kill himself. But he wasn¡¯t about to stick around waiting to see if the door would stay open. Bob could just imagine the system laughing at him as the gateway jerked shut in front of him. Even the thought of it shook him to his core. Not today. He grabbed the side table with both hands and leaped action-hero style through the opening. Anything was better than staying stuck in that room a minute longer. He crashed out, bounced painfully off the ground, the side table drawer spilling open and scattering all his worldly possessions around him. He was alive. Bob pulled himself up to hands and knees. He was shaking all over. But there was dirt beneath those fingers. There was a breeze in the air. He was panting and sobbing, a grown man bawling out his soul on the grass. His eyes stung with tears and mud, but he didn¡¯t care. That had been too close. Far too close. What would have happened to him if he hadn¡¯t made it? He didn¡¯t even want to think. He wiped awkwardly at his face a couple times, spat once or twice on the ground, knelt and looked up. A little girl was standing just over him. The look in her eyes stabbed right through Bob¡¯s heart. Such horror and disgust, such loathing. It was like she thought he was the scum of the earth. She fell back a step when she saw Bob look up at her. She hadn¡¯t just watched all that had she? Oh yes, the look in those eyes, she had seen it all. Bob felt himself start to blush underneath all the mud. He averted his eyes, came up onto one knee and then to a standing position. He went about, picking up his fallen possessions and gathering them into the side table drawer. The whole while she was openly gaping at him like she was searching for the word capable of describing such an abomination. Mud monster was probably the one she wanted. He was caked in the stuff. And a lucky thing too because his make-shift loincloth did a subpar job of protecting his modesty. Bob frowned. He''d never been the most socially adept of his peers. He gave it a moment¡¯s thought, chewed on his options and decided he just play it off like nothing had happened. Hell maybe it was all just a work-stress induced nightmare. ¡°Hello there, I¡¯m Bob. I¡¯ve just had the most horrible dream. You couldn¡¯t tell me where I am could you, and maybe what time it is, actually start with the date?¡± She giggled. Maybe 12 or 13 years old, Bob guessed. Truly an insufferable age. Where was the respect for her elders? She continued to laugh at the grown man in front of her. ¡°Did you just come from the second challenge? Pretty easy, didn¡¯t you think.¡± Drats. So it wasn¡¯t a dream¡­ A man has to hope though no? But even if it had been a dream, he certainly had no plans of describing his adventures, semi-nude, to a bratty twelve year old who looked at him like he was less than dirt. And what had she said, ¡°pretty easy?¡± Those words cut across Bob¡¯s soul. Somehow he didn¡¯t think the two of them would be friends. ¡°Well,¡± brushing his shoulder with a self-conscious smirk, ¡°here I am aren¡¯t I? Nothing to it really, just snagged the wooden key from the fireplace and got through the trapdoor in the ceiling. Maybe five minutes from start to end.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± She gave a marked look at the side table toppled over on the ground. Somehow he didn¡¯t think she believed a word of it. This girl was too clever for her own good. ¡°I¡¯m Sally by the way.¡± ¡°Nice to meet you Sally. I¡¯d shake hands. But got a bit muddy.¡± ¡°Yes I noticed.¡± ¡°Did you?¡± ¡°Are you going to explain?¡± ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t think I will.¡± ¡°Very well then.¡± She crossed her arms and continued to stare at him. ¡°So you know what the next challenge is?¡± Bob saw a couple notifications flashing in the top right, but didn¡¯t think he had the competency to read through his notifications and converse with the girl in front of him at the same time. ¡°No I don¡¯t. I¡¯ve only been here a couple minutes.¡± She spoke the words as though to communicate that he ought to have known as much and why did he ask such stupid questions. She raised a bent finger to her lips. God, she looked insufferably clever. ¡°I think we are waiting for more players. There¡¯s you, me and that pigeon over there.¡± ¡°What?¡± He was pretty sure he¡¯d misheard what she said. Something about a pigeon. ¡°The pigeon,¡± she repeated impatiently, pointedly enunciating each syllable like English was his second or maybe third language (as opposed to his only). She completed the explanation by pointing to a fat, grey but somewhat regal male pigeon perched on a wall nearby. Bob took a quick survey of his surroundings. It looked like an abandoned village? Crumbling structures encircled them, walls overgrown with green vines and blue moss. Time had rolled through here alright. The two of them were standing in a central square, maybe a marketplace; two main roads seemed to intersect here. Bob could see a good way down one of them and make out where the village faded into untilled fields and little patches of forest. Bob stating the facts: ¡°But it¡¯s just a pigeon.¡± ¡°I¡¯m telling you. It¡¯s a player too. It appeared just like you did. There was a portal and everything.¡± Bob raised a skeptical eyebrow, did she really think he''d swallow that horseshit; and that was the moment when space was torn apart in front of them and a massive, black bull straight up pranced out into their midst. ¡°What the¡­¡± Bob jumped back, dragging the girl with him, and slid into one of the ruined buildings bordering the marketplace. The girl glared daggers at him and slapped away his hand. ¡°What was I supposed to do?¡± He whispered, as she carefully tried to brush away the dirt and mud he¡¯d left on her shirt. She ignored him. ¡°Look it¡¯ll charge on sight. Those things are monsters. Have you seen a bull fight before?¡± Bob remembered he was talking to a twelve year old. But she didn¡¯t answer, just put a good six feet between them. Cold, Bob thought to himself. But that was when the system message finally appeared.
Challenge Three (3/4): Choose your side: Hunter or Hunted
¡°Did you get the message?¡± She gave a half-nod. ¡°Look, it¡¯ll be safer if we team up. What side do you want to pick?¡± A timer appeared in Bob¡¯s vision. 10, 9, 8¡­ She hesitated and then ¡°Hunter.¡± ¡°Got it,¡± Bob just managed to press the button in time. The message disappeared and then flashed back:
Hunter: Hunted:
¡°Bitch,¡± Bob couldn¡¯t help himself. Even if he had to throw the whole challenge, he was taking that girl down with him.
Hunter Win condition: Find and touch all members of the opposing team before the time runs out. Remaining time: 06:00:00
Chapter 13 - Egalitarianly Evil
Hunter Win condition: Find and touch all members of the opposing team before the time runs out. Remaining time: 06:00:00
A six hour countdown had started ticking off in the top left corner of his vision. The girl. Bob turned to where she¡¯d been standing. Dammit, he¡¯d been too slow, she¡¯d got the jump on him and was already sprinting out the other side of the room. Oh no you don¡¯t. Bob started after her. I¡¯ll show her, he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. He made a valiant chase. A good show, a noteworthy effort. He must have followed for a whole fifteen minutes, well maybe only ten (the timer moved a bit slow), before he¡¯d collapsed into a ball on the ground, clutching his chest against a killer stitch. A stitch of the type that brought down champions. If not for that cruel stroke of fate, why, he would have had her, had her without a doubt. I mean, it wasn¡¯t his fault he had a desk job. Bob worked with his mind and his mouse. And how unlucky could you be. That girl could run. Weren¡¯t the youths of today supposed to be imprisoned behind virtual screens, their muscles slowly atrophying away and their peripheral vision faded into darkness? Bob circled slowly back to the market square. It took him a good deal longer than ten minutes. There he found his drawer of possessions with everything just as he¡¯d left it. He took out an apple and bit down. These apples were about the only comfort left to him. Things really hadn¡¯t been going his way. Bob cursed his luck. It was becoming quite the pastime. He didn¡¯t fancy his chances in this challenge, no sir, no sir, indeed. He called to mind his three opponents. First, unfolding his index finger, Sally the professional athlete: a twelve year old girl, who could outrun him and probably outthink him (given her assessment of that nightmare second challenge). Not to mention, at that age, she was probably rich in hide-and-seek experience. He¡¯d have a hell of time just tracking her down, let alone laying hands on her. Second, the middle finger came up, Black Lightning. The name basically said it all. A one-ton monster of black muscle and twisted horn, who, Bob had no doubt, would trample him down, skewer him alive, or just crush him into submission without the slightest hesitation. Bob¡¯s very survival depended on staying as far away from that creature as he could. And at the same time, he was supposed to poke the god-damned thing. And third, the ring finger popped up, pigeon 3-something-something-something. Now, some of you might not be aware, but pigeons can fly. Yes, yes, I know, it surprised me too. I, on the other hand, cannot. Yes, yes, I know, it surprised me too. Given the facts of the situation, it was hard to imagine how Bob was supposed to catch the bird, when the bird could just retreat smoothly up into the air. And the universe, pardon ¡°the system¡±, somehow expected him to achieve all of this in a mere six hours. When he was already dead on his feet, utterly spent both mentally and physically, and it was struggle just to stand up and keep going. What a laugh. Are these challenges even supposed to be fair? Bob you¡¯ve stuck your foot in it there. Obviously the answer was no. Bob wanted some good news. He still had those system notification from the second challenge. Might as well take a look. The grey message block expanded in front of him:
Challenge Two Completed! Congratulations. Final Grade - E Current pass percentage: 58% Please continue to next challenge
An E again. This was turning out just like college. Weren¡¯t there bonus points for completeness? He must have explored every path possible in that ten-by-ten room. Sure he¡¯d probably been the slowest person to get out, but nowhere did it say that the challenge was time based. Two Es in a row. He must have one of the lowest scores out of any the survivors. Was there any chance something bad happened to you if your final, aggregate grade was below a certain letter? Maybe you got stuck with some uniquely bad class. That sounded more than probable. That sounded just like the system we all know and love. Bob locked that thought up in the dark place at the back of his mind. And quickly distracted himself by pulling up the next message:
Achievement Upgraded! Lucky -> Cockroach Description: Why won''t you die? Effect:
What? What was up with that effect? Weren¡¯t those two statements directly contradictory? Bob considered life-threatening situations undesirable. He believed that was the common view. He¡¯d call an increased likelihood of encountering them pretty unlucky. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Cockroach. He reread the title. Now everything was out to kill a cockroach, wasn¡¯t it, but the little buggers had a knack for surviving all the same. Lucky and unlucky at the same. He nodded with something like understanding. It didn¡¯t make him feel any better though. Was he the only one who got the sense that the system was going out of its way to kill him? What did I ever do to deserve such recognition? Ok Bob, thinking time. You¡¯ve only got one advantage on this lot: cunning, cunning and desperation. You¡¯ll need a plan Bob. And it¡¯ll need to be a goodun. A Bob Brown special. But before that, you¡¯ll need supplies, tools, ammunition, anything you can find that might give you half a chance in this rathole challenge. And that means you¡¯ll have to go through this town with a fine-toothed comb. So Bob, Bob the good soldier, dragged himself to his feet and started hunting through the abandoned houses looking for whatever he could find. The first good find was a plastic bag trapped under a stone. Up to this point he¡¯d been lugging around the drawer from the side table. It made a nice change. He slung the newly filled bag from his shoulder and carried on a good deal more comfortably. After an hour of poking about, he¡¯d obtained: a coil of string, a handful of good-sized pebbles (never know when you might next need a stone), a rusty watering pot, a couple flints, a pair of reading glasses, some tinned food, one moldy-old trainer, a silver necklace, a plastic water bottle, a can of gasoline still half-full, a few wooden spoons and a bunch of old rags. It was practically all worthless, but he¡¯d picked it all up just the same, because you never knew what might prove useful. He arrived back at the marketplace and sat down to some hard thinking. The pigeon seemed the biggest stumbling block. The bull was all about a reckless disregard for one¡¯s own safety and the girl he might be able to take by surprise or handicap in some way. But the bird¡­ I mean, now that he thought about it, he¡¯d never in all his twenty four years touched a wild bird in his life. The thing wasn¡¯t done. Now, if he¡¯d found a crust of bread or something, he might have been able to lure the pigeon into some kind of ambush. He eyed the canned goods. Would a pigeon go for canned tuna? Probably not. Well maybe he could knock it out of the air with a stone. Let¡¯s call that a backup plan. Bob had never had the best arm. Bringing down a moving target from distance stuck him as an optimistic prospect to say the least. Happy thoughts Bob. Break the problem down. Start with something easy: the girl. She was probably hiding around here somewhere. It was just a matter of looking. "Come out, come out wherever you are." Or, wait, hang on, what if she kept walking in one direction for the whole six hours... Bob let the implications of that thought sink in. "Oh my god..." Bob had already lost. He''d never be able to catch up to her. She was long gone. He''d lost. He''d lost the moment Sally tricked him into picking hunter. He just hadn¡¯t know it yet. All this time, he¡¯d been wandering around with hopes and dreams and plans and it was all for nothing. There''s no way she hadn''t thought of it. Little Miss Smartypants. It was the obvious strategy. Put as much distance between yourself and the hunter. "Over," Bob repeated the word to himself. It made him angry. He was burning hot. It was all too unfair. He couldn''t keep sitting here. He had to... He had to... Bob jumped up to his feet and went looking for someone or something to direct his anger against. Where was that damn pigeon when you needed him? That damn pigeon was just where he¡¯d left it. The audacious creature hadn¡¯t moved an inch from that spot on the broken wall bordering the central marketplace. Unfortunately the wall was still a good three meters tall, well out of the reach of Bob and his short arms. It looked smugly down at Bob and hooted out a greeting. That bird had a personality. Bob rubbed his hand together. The task was simple. All he had to was catapult a pebble into the chest of that self-satisfied winged-rat. It would fall ungracefully to the square ground, where he would promptly stomp on it. Easy as pie. He loaded up a missile, retracted his arm, took careful aim and let fire. The pigeon didn¡¯t even blink. Pitiful, just pitiful. The stone didn¡¯t even make it halfway up the wall. It fell silently down and landed with a plop on the ground. That there was the sound of failure. Bob waved his hands, it couldn¡¯t be helped, he¡¯d made a beginner¡¯s mistake. He had stood too far back. Why on earth had he tried to throw from the other side of the square. He edged closer with all the subtlety of a motorcycle caravan. But the modern pigeon is an urban creature. He¡¯s grown fat on human indifference and boredom. And our pigeon didn¡¯t leave his comfortable perch. No, if anything, Bob thought the bird was encouraging him. Have another go, lad, the bird¡¯s contented hoot seemed to say. Well he was mighty close now, only a few yards away from the wall. A child couldn¡¯t miss this shot. Famous last words. He missed. The stone sailed in a gentle arc about a foot to the left of our pigeon, which lacked even the graciousness to fly off (how uncivilized!). The stone sailed past the pigeon, pitched and dropped down into the structure behind. ¡°Ouch,¡± a girl¡¯s voice broke out, followed by a gasp of fear and the patter of hurried footsteps. Bob just laughed. He hoped that stone had hurt like a bitch. He¡¯d thought about chasing for a moment, but he still felt like he¡¯d only just got his breath back (over a hour had passed). He trusted she¡¯d run a good long while before noticing that he hadn¡¯t followed. But what had she been doing so close to the central square? It didn¡¯t make sense. There was only one reason she¡¯d have chosen to hide in the village at all: she couldn¡¯t leave. Sally couldn''t leave the village. Bob repeated the words. So the system was fair and benevolent after all. Or rather, it was egalitarianly evil. It was out to get Bob, no mistake. But the hunted were players too. And that meant the system was out to get them just the same. They were all trapped in here together, like some happy, happy family. Well this changes things. Bob rubbed his hands together. The beginnings of a plan were starting to form in Bob¡¯s mind. He checked the counter. About four hours left. Yes, he¡¯d have enough time he reckoned. But before that, he still had a few stones left and his arm was just warming up. It took him three more attempts, but then he managed it, the perfect trajectory, a pebble exploded out of his cocked arm and homed in on the pigeon. This was a dead-center bullseye, he¡¯d done it this time, the pigeon made a lazy dodge to the side, fluttering away a step. The stone never had a chance. And the bird settled comfortably back into his spot. It was like the bird was making a point of just how easily it had avoided the stone. Someone bring me a gun. When no gun was surrendered to him, Bob did the only sensible thing. He set down his plastic bag and took hold of the wall. He dragged himself up, one handhold at a time, driven more by will and anger than physical ability. The pigeon waited. That was what kept him going more than anything. The knowledge that the pigeon didn¡¯t think he¡¯d make it. When a red hand appeared on the top of the wall, the pigeon quickly reassessed its position. The bird took to the air and glided away to somewhere a little quieter. Bob let himself slide down, coming to rest with his back against the wall. ¡°I¡¯ll show them all. I¡¯ll show them all.¡± Chapter 14 - Torture Preparations for the master plan took about two hours. And then he needed fifteen minutes or so to recover his strength. You¡¯ve got to make time for yourself. During that period he amused himself by throwing stones in random directions. The pleasure came from imagining Sally curled up somewhere, absolutely pissing herself with fear as a stone clattered down beside her. Bob felt a little bad for enjoying the activity so much. But the girl had really screwed him. The break had also given Bob time to think about George. Recent developments had rather altered the picture. He¡¯d assumed with his human-centric view of things that the system was only initiating humans, but the presence of the bull and pigeon had shifted that equation. George was in for it. George was playing with the big boys. And Bob was seriously worried for his safety. George was a kind, lovable, harmless creature, but he wasn¡¯t particularly endowed in the brain department (and this was coming from Bob). That escape room, Bob bit his lip, I mean Bob himself, brilliant Bob, had seriously struggled. So how would George, chase-his-tail-around George fare? Bob was worried for the dog. He wished he could do something. He felt so powerless. All he wanted was for them both to survive together. "Please let George make it through. Please. He¡¯s never done no wrong to nobody. He doesn¡¯t deserve to die like this. Help George won¡¯t you. Please help him." Bob didn¡¯t quite know to whom he was praying. Probably no one. But the thought of making it through, coming home and finding he¡¯d lost George. That was about the worst thing Bob could imagine. Bob closed his eyes and breathed out. Focus. One thing at a time. If Bob wanted a happy ending with his dog, then he had to make it home too. That meant pulling off this crazy plan. And it was go time. Evening was coming on. The sky¡¯s blue was deepening and darkening. He made his way to the boundary of the village. Nature had long since broken into the settlement even if it hadn¡¯t quite made it to the central square. The outskirt stonework was all vine-faced, the living spaces home to great families of ferns and a tall, dry grass was growing over everything. This was all to Bob¡¯s purpose. Because every good plan starts with fire. He poured out the last of his gasoline on a pile of grasses he¡¯d prepared in advance. Next he pulled out his pieces of flint. At least he thought they were flint. Flint wasn¡¯t really a household material. And Bob didn¡¯t quite trust that the video-game depictions were accurate. But the stone was black and shiny and spat out white sparks when he bashed two pieces together, so he figured it would do the trick. He leaned over his little pile of kindling and smashed the stones together. There were sparks. But it was a bit tricky getting them to go where he wanted. And then even when they did land on the pile, they just sizzled out. Maybe this kind of thing only worked in the movies. Bob sat down (might as well be comfortable) and double-checked the time. 34 minutes left. Had he waited too long? Why had he gone and taken a fifteen minute break? He pulled out some more grass, crumbled it up, and started over again. A spark connected, but no luck, then another, silence, a third and a hiss and the kindling caught. He carefully nurtured the fire-baby, sheltering it from the cruel hard wind of our world and feeding it little mouthfuls of grass. The fire-baby grew and he gradually directed it towards the gasoline soaked grass-heap. The fire ambled leisurely along, not seeming particularly interested, and then the fuel caught and the whole heap burst into fire. Flames ballooned up and the wind howled. The fire was spreading. Now we¡¯re talking, Bob whooped, before noticing that the flames were beginning to cut off his escape. You¡¯d do that to your own father? Bob slung up his trusty plastic bag and sprinted off. Everything was going according to plan. He¡¯d set up similar flammable caches around the whole boundary of the village making sure they were all connected by roads of dried grass. And there was only one open space in the whole of the village. The central marketplace where they¡¯d all spawned in. Bob had even made sure to cover over any wells he¡¯d found while surveying. Long story short. The whole village was about to go up in flames and the only safe place would be the market square. That¡¯s where Bob was heading. That¡¯s where Bob would be waiting for them. That¡¯s where Bob would show them all. Bob was mean-spirited so he¡¯d also done all he could to obstruct and hinder passage throughout the village. He had a lot of fun collapsing down walls across alleyways and digging little pot holes in streets, the kind you broke your ankle on. Oh there¡¯d be no trouble in the daylight, walking leisurely around with your eyes on the ground, but in a panic, fire and smoke at your back, well maybe he could at least cripple that bull. Bob arrived at the village square. He could see smoke rising from the village suburbs. The net was drawing closed. He took up his carefully prepared hiding spot. See, there had just so happened to be a deep channel on one side of the square. Bob guessed it had originally been designed for piping away rain. But years of neglect had seen the channel filled with wet dirt, mud if you will. It was surprisingly deep and viscous. Now this had not been Bob¡¯s first choice. Truth be told Bob had wasted a good amount of time looking for some other, any other, hiding spot in the marketplace. But there was nothing to be had. It was all open space or on the potential path of a participant making their way to the square. So, with great regret, Bob found himself lying face down in a ditch. A ditch filled with mud. Breathing shallow breathes through a hollow stem of dry grass. Clutching the tightly tied plastic bag under his belly. Bob couldn¡¯t help himself from becoming a tad philosophical. He kept asking himself again and again how he¡¯d ended up here. Of course, he understood why intellectually. He understood, and yet, no, no, he didn¡¯t understand at all. This whole experience, this ¡°initiation¡±, had changed him in fundamental and terrible ways. Could he seriously have conceived, even a day ago, that he might of his own violation, nay, as part of a premeditated plan, lie down in what could only have been the village sewage ditch (rain drainage was a nice story but) and suck out his living breaths through a hollow reed? Needless to say, even this animated portrayal of the situation fell far, far short of its true experience. It was a torture to remain still. It was a torture to feel the warm sludge against his bare skin. It was a torture to breathe, a torture to smell, a torture to be alive in that half-submerged hellhole. He felt like he was slowly drowning. He couldn¡¯t seem to get enough air through his reed. The stem was too narrow. His lungs were hacking and ragged with the effort of keeping him alive. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. It wouldn¡¯t be long now. He hoped. He prayed. He doubted. Why had he gotten in so early? He could have waited another minute, two minutes at that. The fire needs time to spread, to grow. Did a part of him want to be here? The dark, secret thoughts started to bubble up. Was a part of him enjoying this? Was this what the system wanted of him? Was he some twisted experiment? Would he ever be quite normal again? The fire was growing. It was spreading, sweeping over the village in one unstoppable wave. A fire creates its own wind. He smelt smoke. He felt warm air on his back. He wanted to sit up and see how close the fire had come. But he didn¡¯t move. He lay there in the ditch and waited. This was his only chance. His gamble. He¡¯d played every last card in his hand. 26 minutes left on the clock. That¡¯s when he heard muffled sounds in the distance. Stonework was falling down. Hooves on cobblestone, closer, then further away. The beast''s snarling and snorting. Would the bull not be able to find its way to the square? He hadn¡¯t calculated for that level of stupidity. What would happen if the bull died somewhere deep in the fire? Did that count as completion? Probably not, Bob groaned. Wait, the noise was closer now, an angry gallop coming nearer and now a loud, nasal panting. The bull had found its way into the square. It had started pawing the ground. Wait it hadn¡¯t found him had it? Bob almost bolted. The bull circled a few times (the tap of his hooves growing louder than softer). Thank god. Bob metaphorically wiped the sweat from his brow. From what he¡¯d heard, bulls had a difficult time seeing stationary objects. Or rephrasing, a bull would charge at any thing that moved. Good thing he¡¯d stayed so calm. Lure the bull to the square. Check. Now how was he supposed to touch it. When Bob had imagined the scene, in Bob¡¯s mind¡¯s eye, so to speak, the bull had come to rest right beside the ditch, sitting down and facing the open space. At that point, he had planned to just reach gently over and tap it on the behind. Unfortunately, the village square was rather on the large side. Not that large, mind, maybe twenty-five by forty feet. And yet his arm¡¯s reach was only two to three feet at best. And the bull had parked himself on the opposite corner. This development was unfortunate. And truth be told, Bob was a little at a loss for what to do. If he moved, the bull would see him. But if he stayed, well, nothing would happen, and at some point the timer would run out and he¡¯d have to read those two awful words again: game over. The pacing stopped and there was a heavy thump. Sounds like the bull had lain down. Makes sense. The beast was probably pretty tired out. From the racket he¡¯d made getting here, he¡¯d had some rough going reaching the square. Not to mention as a system survivor, traumatized by sudden teleportation and a series of nonsensical challenges, the bull was probably a mental wreck. In a way, Bob felt for the animal. They were all victims here. And yet, one has to be practical. If it was Bob or the bull, Bob was for Bob all the way. And Bob suspected the bull felt the same for the bull. There was nothing for it. He had to make his move now. Before the girl showed up. He raised his head ever so slightly, just enough for his eyes to peek up out of the mud. He gasped, lost his position on the straw and swallowed down a mouthful of mud (the stuff was starting to taste familiar). She was right there. Literally an arm¡¯s length away. She¡¯d been creeping along the wall, making for the square. Bob choked and she started at the sudden sound. She turned and her eyes widened as she made him out against the ditch. His hand swiped out for her ankle, but she stepped back just in time, stepped back and tripped, yelling and screaming as she collided with the ground. Bob scrambled up. He had to touch her. He only needed a finger. She was crawling away. He was so close. He would catch her. A low growl in the distance froze both of them in place. The bull was standing now, glaring angrily at the pair of them. Why, it almost looked like the bull was about to charge. The bull charged. The animal tore across the square, missiling into the space between the two of them. Bob dived back and out of the way. "Come on. How is that fair? "Bob grumbled as the bull leaned into a turn, ignoring the girl entirely and centering in on Bob. He couldn¡¯t let the girl escape. He had to go after her. The world was angry and red, flashing with savage orange shadows and flickering white sparks. Smoke billowed over everything in dense, choking clouds. The girl was sprinting away for dear life. Bob was huffing and puffing after her. And the bull was galloping after Bob. Bob sidestepped behind a wall as the bull threw himself forward. Smash, the wall shook violently, then started to topple and Bob took the hint, breaking away just as the stone wall began tumbling down. Bob looked back long enough to see the blood-red eyes of the furious bull glittering in the air. All the while, Bob hadn¡¯t lost sight of the girl and blundered after her as she vaulted over low walls and dodged around obstacles, searching desperately for some way out. Bob just caught a glimpse in his periphery vision of the pigeon sitting calmly in its previous perch, watching the whole scene unfold, with a quiet, aloft pleasure. All together at last. And there was no escape now. The fire had walled them in. The whole village was burning and even now the fire gobbled up more and more homes. The girl veered left, but was forced to double back when the fire flared up in front of her and the heat grew unbearable. He was right behind her now. And the bull was rocketing after both of them. She made it through the doorway of a small house. He started to follow. It was right there. But he wasn¡¯t going to make it. The ground rumbled with the sound of the approaching bull. Bob turned and for one eternal moment stared down Black Lightning. It would be easy, simple, one quick step to the side and he¡¯d just reach out and tap it on the shoulder, one moment of brave insanity, he stood there, almost in a trace, semi-naked, double coated in mud, with his plastic bag of possessions looped about his shoulder and watched the bull charge forward. And then he came to his senses and dove the hell out of the way. He felt an impact. ¡°I¡¯m hit. I¡¯m hit.¡± He rolled away, tried to scramble up, waiting for the moment a cold, sharp horn would be plunged through his midriff. He patted himself down. Where was the blood? Where was the death-wound? Where was his bag? The doorway had cracked under the weight of a fully-grown bull¡¯s charge and the wall above had crumbled down on top of the animal. When the dust cloud began to settle, Bob could distinguish a black silhouette in the haze. It was snorting and bucking, smashing into things, howling. The plastic bag was caught on the bull¡¯s horns and flapping wildly against its face. Bob¡¯s possessions were sprinkled about on the ground. The confused and blinded bull rushed off in another direction and Bob remembered the girl. Bob scrambled over the loose stones of what had once been the entrance and there she was. Backed up against the wall. The building only had the one entranceway. The roof had caved in, but the walls were still standing. Bob reckoned he could have scaled them, but they were a smidge too tall for her twelve year old little arms to reach. Survival of the fitness. When she saw Bob enter, she shrunk back, eyes darting left and right. Her pupils flickering wildly against the red echo of the sky. So it had come to this. This was the end. He took a step forward. She snarled. It sounded like a wild beast. He took another step. There was no escape. Another step. He could reach out and touch her if her wanted. She was that close. She fell to her knees and started to cry. ¡°Please, please, let me go, let me go.¡± Chapter 15 - It isn’t fair She was kneeling in front of him. Tears shining in her eyes. She was begging him. A twelve year old girl. Bob thought he¡¯d never seen anything so pitiful in all his twenty four years. God, why does she have to make me feel so wretched? Bob had wanted to help her. He had tried to help her. He¡¯d only picked hunter because she had told him to. She¡¯d betrayed him. That was the simple truth. Why was it so hard to remember that through her shattered, retching sobs? What would happen to her, he wondered. An inferno was blazing around them, the sky shifting and swirling with red sparks and everywhere a great wind howled and howled. This here was a new world. A darker world. A crueler world. But it wasn¡¯t fair. It wasn¡¯t fair to her. What kind of man was he? Would he throw everything away to save some girl who¡¯d probably just laugh at him for his stupidly? That was a hero alright. Oh and Bob knew nothing had really changed. That she didn¡¯t care a straw for him. She was just desperate. Trying out every last trick she knew. Hell, he would have done the same. He would have done worse. He would have got down on his knees and rubbed his face in the dirt. And that¡¯s why he hesitated. He was no saint, no storybook hero. But he had a heart, knew pity, felt enough emotions to make stupid decisions, now and again, too often even. And so he wanted to save her if he could. He really did. She was mumbling, telling him how she was sorry, how she hadn¡¯t meant it, how she really wasn¡¯t a bad girl; she started rambling on about her white pet rabbit, Trix, who sat in his cage all day and grew fat on lettuce and carrots, and then about the boy who sat next to her in class and who was super annoying and kept bothering her, see, she always tried her best and had only got As this year, well except for that one history test where she¡¯d confused Henry VI for Henry the VII, but how could she help it when they all kept reusing the same names, and then she came back to her rabbit and told how soft the rabbit¡¯s fur was, and how she liked to sit at her desk with the rabbit on her knees and let him sleep there. It all washed over Bob like he¡¯d known her her whole life. He thought about George and he sighed, and maybe they weren¡¯t so different after all. Everything was silent. Everything except for her voice, her sweet childish voice, repeating the same empty episodes to him over and over. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Bob said, swallowing and looking down at his feet as he reached out his hand to pat the girl on the head, ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± looking down so that he didn¡¯t have to see her pleading eyes turn to despair and then fury, looking down and failing to notice when she leapt savagely at him and bit down hard on his finger.
A hunted has been eliminated. Two remaining...
¡°For the love of God,¡± Bob howled, jerking his hand back but she was gone. Blinked away as soon he¡¯d made contact. The process unfortunately lasting just long enough for his index finger to suffer the full impact of her teeth. The incident actually went a small way towards steadying Bob¡¯s nerves. That girl was psycho. She¡¯d only have grown up to be a terror on the whole of humanity. At least that what¡¯s he told himself, but he couldn¡¯t quite get himself to believe it. He had to win now. He just had to. 10 minutes left on the clock, no overtime, no sudden-death. It was do or die, death or glory. He hurried out of the room and rushed back to the market square. The bull was grumbling about there on the far side. It still hadn¡¯t managed to knock off the plastic bag. The animal pawed piteously at its face. It charged about in circles. It moaned and moaned, before finally slumping down and whining. Bob had a feeling it had probably swallowed down a little bit too much carbon monoxide with all that running about. It was all to the good. Well Bob here¡¯s your chance to prove yourself, to make a man of yourself. 7 minutes on the clock, counting down. Despite the time pressure, Bob decided on a wide detour around the boundary of the square so that he could approach the bull from behind. He moved with exaggerated slowness, like he was a pantomime villain. The bull continued to lie on the ground, now and again half-heartedly tilting its head, as though the bag might just drop off. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Bob was in the penalty box now, the goal wide open, everything to play for, and Bob slowed down even further, each step edging him a little closer to the animal, three more steps he judged, three more steps and he could reach out and tap the slope of its back. A part of his mind was screaming at him to dive forward. Now was his chance. He only had to make contact and the beast would flash away. He was close enough already. He could do it. He hesitated. The bull trying once more to trap the bag under its left knee. The horns tilted and the bag rose up and... off. A gust of wind had caught it and the bag floated gracefully away. All that thrashing must have widened the hole. The bull was free and its beady eye snapped round to the figure of Bob frozen solid two yards behind its back. Bob lunged and¡­ missed. How a beast of that size could move so fast, it wasn¡¯t fair. The bull had sprung to its feet like black lightning. It was starting to wheel, to position itself, to point those mean-looking horns at Bob¡¯s soft, vulnerable places. Bob scrambled forward, trying to get a finger on it, and smack, Bob took a whip-like blow to face and went down. Ah, he couldn¡¯t see what was happening, he groped backwards, crablike, crawling blindly away from the towering black god, except, ping
A hunted has been eliminated. One remaining...
Bob¡¯s vision cleared enough for him to see that the bull was no longer there. He blinked and gently padded his cheek with his fingertips. Everything stung. He tasted blood in his mouth. No doubt he made a pretty picture. What had happened? His thoughts were still a little blurry. The bull¡¯s tail. The tail must have whipped around as the animal tried to turn. Lucky or unlucky, it was hard to tell these days. But no time for complaining Bob, you can complain later, don¡¯t worry you won¡¯t forget. He stumbled to his feet, three minutes left, and there, unmoving, undaunted, regal against a molten orange sky, the pigeon surveyed the scene from his perch. Bob¡¯s first and final adversary. The last boss. The demon king. The monster had already beaten him once. Humiliating him and forcing him to slink back to his den. But not this time. This time he¡¯d have his vengeance.
Three minutes and counting, one hundred and eighty seconds. Pigeon 342017 was perched high up on top of the broken wall. He was unfazed by the whirlwind of fire and smoke. Only a little longer now. He watched the helpless human with wide, mocking eyes. What are you going to do now? What hope do you have left? Nothing more than a measly wounded human. The man hobbled over to the wall of the building. Would he try to climb up? Futile, meaningless, it had taken him ten minutes to get up last time. He¡¯d never make it. Didn¡¯t he understand that. But the man didn¡¯t climb. No, he was bending down, he had started shoving the wall. Pigeon 342017 laughed. As though the man could push down a wall of solid masonry. But then the wall trembled, a hint of surprise and annoyance flashed through our pigeon¡¯s eyes. The wall teetered, the bricks were all loose, like someone had chipped out the mortar holding them together. The whole structure shuddered and then started to collapse. Two minutes left. It was all immaterial. What a pointless struggle, the bird mused, didn¡¯t the man know, (our pigeon couldn¡¯t fathom the psychology of these land-locked creatures) he would just take to the air, he would hover above the man and watch the seconds tick down. The pigeon unfolded his wings in a clean, practiced motion, he took off, he stepped out into the air, except, but, he was falling, his legs wouldn¡¯t budge, what was happening, he yanked at his feet, he was spinning down in the air, wings flapping wildly, dragged inexorably down. He hit the ground hard. He felt dizzy and distorted. He¡¯d never fallen before. Our pigeon looked up and there was a two-legged creature standing over him, the man-beast, a brute drenched in mud and blood and dirt. And the man was laughing. ¡°I knew it the moment I first saw you. The moment you gazed imperially down at me from that high perch. You were infernally, unbearably proud. And so I knew you wouldn¡¯t be able to resist the pleasure, the poetry of returning to that very same spot, to your unassailable perch, and watch us mortals in our dirty and unseemly struggles.¡± Our pigeon trembled, trying to drag himself a little further away, shedding feathers and blood for every half centimeter, as he pulled against the stone weight glued to his feet. It wasn''t fair. He was a creature of the air. A majesty messenger of the heavens. It wasn''t fair. ¡°I never had a chance. God knows I never had a chance. That¡¯s why this gives me a special kind of pleasure.¡± The man bent down over him. There were only ten seconds left. If he could just put a bit of distance between them. He could still do it. The bird pushed, he struggled, he could feel his legs being pulled out of his sockets. He would be free. Free! ¡°No you don¡¯t.¡± The hand came relentlessly down. A flash and everything went dark. Chapter 16 - A mean card player
A hunted has been eliminated. None remain The hunter is victorious
Challenge Three Completed! Congratulations. Final Grade - E Current pass percentage: 65% Please continue to next challenge
Another E? Another bleeding E? Three Es in a row. Bob was lying in the middle of the square, reading his system messages against a red, apocalyptic sky. The fires still crackled and swirled around him, but they didn¡¯t bother him, lying there, staring up at the misty sky. No Bob was happy, madly happy, he¡¯d never felt so damn alive. He¡¯d done it. He¡¯d done it, boys. Bob had made it through another challenge. He¡¯d live to see another day. Bob was still alive. The E did annoy him a little though, most unreasonable, were they only judging on time? Nobody is ever happy with the ref¡¯s call, no matter what he ends up calling. Hadn¡¯t Bob been injured multiple times and just look at the state of the field, and that was all aside from finishing with zero seconds on the clock. Ok, maybe E wasn¡¯t completely ridiculous. Still you¡¯d think he might have got some bonus points for the 3 on the 1. A bit uncharitable no? Bob still couldn¡¯t believe his plan had worked. Mostly, anyway. The pigeon had been a real long-shot. There had just been something about the way the bird eyed him. That look of superiority, of rank disdain, he¡¯d seen that enough times in his life before: this person thinks they¡¯re better than me. That¡¯s what clutched it for Bob. What would a proud man do? Where would he come to spectate the ugly struggles of his inferiors? It had to be that spot. That same spot. Bob had bet a lot on that chance. He¡¯d climbed back up that wall (he didn¡¯t like to remember the experience) and he¡¯d coated the whole ridge in the superglue he¡¯d found back in the side table drawer. Then he¡¯d had to spend a long time chipping out the wall mortar. He mostly did that because he didn¡¯t fancy having to climb up the bloody wall a third time. Still all¡¯s well that ends well. He saw another notification and tapped it open beside the completion message.
Achievement: Stylishly Late Description: Better than being early. Complete an initiation challenge with less than 5 seconds remaining on the clock Effect: A minor bonus to dexterity
Sometimes Bob thought the system was taking the piss. Had someone really programmed in that achievement? He guessed he should¡¯ve been more suspicious when there was achievement for getting yourself muddy. Bob looked back over the other message. That was when he noticed the ¡°current pass percentage.¡± 65%. Really? 65%? How were so many people passing? What would have happened if we¡¯d all picked the same side? Would we go again or would it just be an instant win? That number sure made it sound like the latter. Some kind of teamwork, cooperation bullshit reward. Man that seemed like just the amount of arbitrariness the system enjoyed. We could¡¯ve been that group. We should¡¯ve been. Why did Sally have to lie to him? Bob guessed he¡¯d spend many sleepless nights trying to answer that question. The lighted path was pointing him to a doorway off the market square. But Bob didn¡¯t move. No, Bob continue to lie there and look into the night sky, into the red shadows and ethereal smoke. It was strangely beautiful. He¡¯d killed a little girl today. It was hard to know what to feel about it. Yesterday, yes, in the world of yesterday, that truth would have been unthinkable, unbearable, it would have eaten away at his mind, turned him into a mumbling wreck. But today, now, Bob only stroked his chin and wondered what he ought to feel. It had been her or him. That was the plain fact of the matter. But did that make it alright? Bob didn¡¯t know. He stroked his chin and wondered. And then another question came to him: would he have done the same again? Yes, he answered without hesitation. He wasn¡¯t going to sugarcoat it or pretend to be something he wasn¡¯t. He would have done it again. Well, there it was. What else was there to say? Maybe Bob should have lamented the kind of man he¡¯d become. The kind of man who could kill a little girl and think calmly, even rationally on the subject. But, you know what, he didn¡¯t. Bob felt proud. He¡¯d fought. He¡¯d fought and she¡¯d fought. And he¡¯d won. And he would keep going. Bob wasn¡¯t done yet. Bob was getting out of this place. Bob was going home. Time to move on. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Bob gathered up his possessions. He¡¯d acquired a good many by this time (he was a bit of a hoarder). Three apples, all he had left of his crop, the system primer, the pencil case and exercise book, his hunting knife, the collected junk from the village (highlights being a silver necklace and a pair of reading glasses): it made quite the pile. The trouble was he not longer had his plastic bag. He didn¡¯t begrudge the bag. The bag had served valiantly, most valiantly. It was perhaps the true hero of the whole affair. The bag that conquered the bull. But then a bag would have been most handy around now. Instead, he searched out his old side-table drawer and piled his crap inside. Only one challenge left, here¡¯s to praying that it doesn¡¯t involve mud, Bob walked through the lighted entranceway and into¡­ a building, some kind of large hall, the ceiling was way up and the room exceptionally grand. The whole space was packed with people. The people were laughing and chatting. Why the people were drinking. Drinking what looked like alcohol too. And they were well dressed most of them, long gowns or black ties, all very fancy and proper. Bob, well, Bob, on the other hand, was not exactly in formal wear. Acutely embarrassed, he ducked and wove his way through the press of people and made it to a deserted corner. There he plopped himself down on the ground (he was probably dirtier than the floor). That was when he noticed something off with the people¡¯s faces. They looked penciled in almost, more grey outlines than real faces. There was something about them that made he think they weren¡¯t real people. They weren¡¯t survivors like Sally or himself.
Challenge Four (4/4): Pay the exit fee (1000 credits)
Along with the final challenge notification, five chips materialized in front of him and fell neatly into a stack. Bob picked one up. It was a black, round disk. He thought he heard a slight buzz emanating from the object, as though there were a current running through it. The chip was completely unmarked but when he focused on it, a system annotation popped up 100 credits. Five 100 credit chips. 500 credits worth. And the exit fee was 1000. That was when it came to him. Bob had finally realized what this place reminded him of: a casino. Bob was conflicted. On the one hand, don¡¯t get me wrong, he was ecstatic that the final challenge had not turned out to be a duel to the death against some hideous creature of the deep or worse still another player. The proposition had seemed more than likely given the confrontational aspects of the first and third challenge. On the other hand, he didn¡¯t fancy staking his immortal soul on the roll of a dice. Especially give his luck so far. Wait a moment, wasn¡¯t Bob supposed to have good luck? He felt like over two thirds of his achievements, the vast majority of those unrelated to mud, had provided some bonus to his ¡°luck.¡± Bob ought to be one of the luckiest people alive at this point. And yet Bob maintained the healthy skepticism of a man who had been teleported out of a luxurious bath to land in a puddle of mud. The system¡¯s definition of luck, Bob suspected, did not perfectly correspond with Bob¡¯s definition of luck. And it was highly questionable whether the stat would translate over to luck in simple games of chance. No, here was a moment for brain power. See Bob understood the basic principles of card counting. Hell, he wasn¡¯t a bad hand at cards when it came to it. Some might say he was a mean card-player (at least in his own reckoning). And there was no time limit that he could see. The way to do this was to go slow, take your time, study your opponent and plan out a strategy. Bob made a circuit of the hall. Then he made another circuit. Then he cursed fate, god, the system, and these confounded challenges. Alas, for there was only one game available in this casino and that the most mindless, luck-based, casino-skewered one of the lot ¡ª roulette. And to rub salt in the wound, American Roulette. 36 numbers alternating red and black, plus a green zero, and (the shamelessness of it) a double zero. This house is rigged. The system is literally laughing at us. What part of this is an initiation? Where was the lesson, the teaching, where was the goddamn tutorial for that matter? This here, this here is a culling. It¡¯s obvious isn¡¯t it? The system figures it¡¯ll just reduce the numbers a little bit. And we¡¯re powerless to do anything. While complaining, Bob had migrated over to the edge of the table. He watched the dealer reach over with white gloved hands to give the wheel a deft spin and then drop a little ball into the whirling contraption. The ball spiraled around its little circuit and the gathered players leaned collectively forward to watch the little ball¡¯s progress. The ball slowed. It seemed about to fall into 31 and then tripped over into 16. ¡°Black 16,¡± the dealer announced, ¡°Black 16.¡± He silently raked in the lost bets and pushed out winnings. Bob had studied the whole episode waiting for the other shoe to drop. Despite his grumbling, he had been fairly confident that there was a trick here. He figured there would be some twist, maybe the wheel was biased or there¡¯d be some signal or hint in the way the dealer placed the ball. Of course, you couldn¡¯t conclude anything from just one spin, but the whole thing looked like bog standard roulette to Bob. A simple game of chance. Well Bob pushed one of the grey-faced revelers off his chair and parked himself in it, ignoring the offended and angry look that the man in the top hat gave him. He would have to do his homework here. He leaned his drawer against the chair, extracted out the exercise book and a pencil, smoothed them out on the table and got ready to take notes. That was when he caught sight of bow-tied waiter. He loudly and obnoxiously signaled the man over. ¡°Do you have anything non-alcoholic?¡± ¡°No sir.¡± Bob hesitated. Bob hesitated for maybe half a second. But he was pretty thirsty. And he was playing the long game here. Worse case he would just sleep it off. The carpet didn¡¯t look that uncomfortable. ¡°What about a beer then, you must have beer, I saw a man drinking it on the way here.¡± ¡°Very good, sir.¡± And he strode away. Well something to look forward to, eh? About the only way he¡¯d be able to muddle through the boredom of taking notes. Unfortunately, Bob knew enough about statistics to know that he¡¯d need a massive sample size to make any strong conclusions. And strong conclusions were necessary to turn this life and death decision into something more than a coin flip. Bob got to work with the thought: this is going to be boring. Chapter 17 - Magic Beer Bob kept at it for two hundred and fifty rolls. And that Herculean feat had only been managed with the assistance of steady supply of golden liquid. Bob had stopped feeling guilty long ago. Truth be told, he¡¯d rather started enjoying himself. If he¡¯d ever deserved a drink in his life, today was the day. He didn¡¯t know if it was just because he was thirsty, or maybe it was the situation, or maybe this was some kind of magic beer, but the stuff tasted good. Real good. Like probably the best beer he¡¯d ever had in his life. He put away another glass and signaled over the waiter. The smartly dressed man had quickly caught on to the process and promptly arrived with another glass filled to the brim. Bob was feeling pretty good. In that time, he''d noticed something interesting. Some of the players felt a little different. They lacked that grey, lifeless quality. In other words, they looked like real people. There was a middle-aged woman with hollowed out cheeks. A little boy standing on a chair to see over the table. A teenager in school uniform snapping pictures with her smartphone. And that was before mentioning the non-human contingent. There was a black cat perched on the far side of the table (the surrounding players did not look particularly pleased) and a very vocal gathering of three chickens sitting on stools, clucking animatedly to each other. The survivors bet differently too. They¡¯d hesitate, second-guess themselves and stare longingly after the chips the dealer swept emotionlessly away. Every now and again one of them would win and he''d cradle the chips to himself and look like he was about to weep. Then he''d take the whole lot and head off to one of the doors. A handful of players had stopped betting at all. They just stood at the side and gazed blankly at the little ball. There was nothing particularly startling in the discovery. So Bob wasn¡¯t the only player in this casino, so what? There was no direct competition here. They were all battling their own individual battles. Bob chose to ignore them all. He would focus on his task and on the ice-cold beer by his hand. However at around the two hour mark, something happened to pull Bob away from his magic beer. An older man, in a respectable suit, good business-wear, had caught Bob''s attention. There was a glint to his eyes and he was pushing a solitary black chip back and forth on the green velvet of the table. Bob got the feeling that was his last one. The man deliberated a long time and then as though seized by a devil-may-care impulse he flung the chip onto red. A few seconds passed and the man studiously avoided looking at the table. Then came the dealer¡¯s flat monotone: ¡°All bets final.¡± The old man shuddered a little, but continued his indifferent act. The ball was off. And Bob studied its gyrations with an interest markedly lacking from his previous two hundred and fifty observations. The old man¡¯s nonchalance too had crumbled away. He looked like someone who¡¯d just woken up and couldn¡¯t believe the idiocy he¡¯d practiced while asleep. His eyes flickered back and forth between the ball and his bet like he was on the verge of clawing it back, just grabbing the chip and making a run for it. The ball started to slow. The man¡¯s fingers were twitching. He was mumbling something to himself. It was like he was all alone in the world. The ball stopped, wobbled and tucked itself into the pocket: ¡°Black 26,¡± the dealer said in an even, deadpan voice. The man turned white. He turned out his pockets, patted down his jacket, like he thought he might just have misplaced a chip there. Alas, they were all too empty. Behind him there was a rustle, people were starting to move. Finally, the crowd parted as two large men pushed their way through, coming up on either side of the trembling man. ¡°No more chips, sir?¡± The man gulped and looked down without answering. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind.¡± They each took hold of one of the man¡¯s arms and started to march him away. What would happen to him? You didn¡¯t have to be a genius to figure it out. ¡°Wait, wait,¡± Bob shouted after the pair, jumping from his seat and sprinting around the table. He chased after, shoving people out of his way to get through. He caught up with them just a few steps from a large, polished set of black doors. They looked like the gates of hell. Bob was panting. ¡°Wait, wait, he dropped this earlier. I picked it up,¡± Bob managed to get out, holding out a chip in his right hand. ¡°Look here it is. It¡¯s his.¡± The large man hesitated, glancing ahead at the double doors; he seemed unhappy with the development. The two exchanged glances and then looked up at a camera on the ceiling. When no signal came, they shrugged and let the man go. The man promptly sank to the ground and collapsed in a pile on the nice carpet. He seemed to have a hard time understanding what had just happened. Bob knelt over him. How were you supposed to comfort an adult male in the midst of a breakdown again? He didn¡¯t remember learning that at school. Bob ventured a gentle pat on the shoulder, but the man started wildly, attacking the air, so Bob decided to give him a little bit of space. After a minute or two, Bob attempted opening communications again: ¡°feeling any better there?¡± The man nodded groggily. ¡°Thank you.¡± He said it a quiet voice, not looking at Bob. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I couldn¡¯t see them take you away like that. Any idea what would have happened to you?¡± The man visibly paled. ¡°Let¡¯s side table that question. I¡¯m Bob. Nice to meet you.¡± ¡°Henry,¡± he managed a weak smile. ¡°I thought it was all over there for a moment.¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Lady Luck hasn¡¯t turned her back on you yet.¡± ¡°Yes, so it seems.¡± Henry reached up to accept Bob¡¯s proffered hand. ¡°Up we go.¡± Bob pulled the man to his feet and give his suit a few brushes. ¡°Good as new, good as new¡­¡± Henry seemed to have had a chance to appraise his new acquaintance¡¯s appearance. ¡°Might I ask, what happened to your¡­ attire?¡± ¡°Ah yes, right, long story that one. Where were you when it happened?¡± ¡°I was in the middle of a presentation. We had a meeting with a few potential clients in Asia. It was a significant opportunity to expand our market share.¡± ¡°That¡¯s sounds¡­ important. Well, I, not sure how best to put this, I was in the bath, enjoying a nice warm soak.¡± ¡°That explains things. Unfortunate timing.¡± ¡°Yes, well put, unfortunate timing, that¡¯s the phrase, unfortunate timing. But you know, we make the best of things.¡± They had made their way back to the table at this point and Bob led Henry over to his corner with its open exercise book and half-drunk beer glass. Bob downed the rest and signaled over the waiter. ¡°Anything for you Henry?¡± ¡°No thank you. I don¡¯t drink during working hours.¡± ¡°Suit yourself.¡± The waiter nodded silently and went off to fetch another beer. ¡°How you¡¯d manage on the escape room?¡± Bob restarted the conversation. He felt like he¡¯d plumed that room to its depths and could make a good showing (with appropriate revisions). ¡°The second challenge. Rather lacking in content I thought.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± Bob held himself back, barely. ¡°Yes. The blank wall behind the chair spins open. I¡¯ll admit you do have to do from the right side because the wall comes out anti-clockwise. But I don¡¯t think I spent more than three minutes in the room.¡± ¡°What?¡± Bob whispered in the shattered tones of a broken man. ¡°Oh¡­ so you mean?¡± Bob sank his head down onto the table. Why hadn¡¯t he ever tried pushing on that blank wall? It didn¡¯t make any sense to have a completely empty wall. Well this conversation was doing nothing for Bob¡¯s sanity. ¡°What about the third challenge?¡± ¡°It was rather anticlimactic I thought. To be honest, I¡¯m not entirely certain what the task was. I was with a group of three other people and a wild goat. When the prompt came up, we all agreed to go hunter. The goat happened to do the same and then the system told us the challenge had been completed.¡± "Fucking hell¡­" Bob grumbled into his beer. Some people have all the luck. ¡°Is that so? Lucky you. Well and what about the boar?¡± ¡°It was rather a simple-minded creature, didn¡¯t you think? It only charged in straight lines and the stage was densely forested. I did what I guess everybody did. I stood in front of a tree and stepped out of the way at the last second. I¡¯m embarrassed to admit it took me a good many attempts before I could land a blow with the knife.¡± Bob was shaking his head and gritting his teeth. ¡°No that makes sense. That¡¯s what I did.¡± ¡°Nothing really to it, was there?¡± ¡°No, just like you say, nothing to it.¡± Bob fell silent for a good thirty seconds and sort of stewed in his beer. Somewhere along the way, despite the many Es, he¡¯d started thinking he¡¯d actually done quite well. Well Henry¡¯s experiences sure put the thing into perspective. It was hard to say how long Bob might have sat there in his self-critical, self-pitying alcoholic haze. But Henry turned to him and asked point-blank. ¡°How many chips have you got?¡± Bob pulled himself up from a deep, dark place to respond. ¡°Just the starting five, minus the one I gave you, so four left.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Bob had a hard time making out what the man was thinking. He was pretty sure the man was thinking. He gave off that sort of quiet, intelligent vibe like he already knew or guessed everything and so didn¡¯t have to bother saying anything. ¡°And the exit fee is ten chips.¡± He said more to himself than to Bob. ¡°Yeah, but there¡¯s got to be some kind of trick to it, right? It can¡¯t just be chance.¡± Bob gestured at the open notebook with its long list of numbers. ¡°I thought so too. I counted around 500 rounds. But the probabilities are all within expected bounds. I made some rough plots, but it comes out to a standard uniform probability model. There was no deviation large enough to exploit.¡± ¡°Huh, is that so?¡± Bob was a little annoyed. Another two hours of life squandered. Add it to the weeks and months that had come before. ¡°Wait, so you¡¯re telling me it¡¯s just luck. Just a game of luck.¡± ¡°I explored half a dozen different theories. I¡¯ve been here about six hours. But I couldn¡¯t detect any irregularities. Everything was well within expectations.¡± ¡°Just a game of luck? What a way to run things. I¡¯m starting to think this new world isn¡¯t going to be a lot of fun.¡± ¡°Yes, I can¡¯t imagine what this disorder will have done to the markets. We are in for quite unprecedented times.¡± ¡°Well what¡¯s the move, I mean, how we are supposed to the earn the exit fee.¡± ¡°Yes that is the question. Now I believe the optimal move is to bet all 5 chips on either red or black straight from the outset. That gives you just under 50% chance.¡± Henry grimaced. ¡°But I¡¯m embarrassed to admit I couldn¡¯t stomach it. I thought there must be some kind of exploit.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I tried a bunch of small bets. There seemed a high chance that I might discover something. But, well," Henry coughed in his hand, "you saw what happened.¡± Bob had muddled along, nodding where appropriate, but secretly thinking to himself that he¡¯d just given up his one chip to save the man and so could no longer pursue optimal strategy. That one act of kindness had probably halved his chances of getting out of here alive. But you can put a price on gratitude can you? ¡°No good,¡± Henry muttered to himself, like he¡¯d just reached some quite of conclusion. ¡°One chip, it¡¯s not enough. I would have to win three times in a row. Twice on half odds, and once on the 3 to 1s. That would give me 1/12 odds. So just about a 8.3% chance. Not counting the twice zeros of course. Realistically it is closer to 6%.¡± Bob was stunned. How had he done the calculation so quickly, especially that percentage. Bob always had to draw divisions out otherwise he lost track of the numbers. Bob looked at his companion with a new respect. ¡°What did you say, 8.7%?¡± ¡°8.3%¡± Henry corrected coolly. ¡°But I can¡¯t see a better combination. In a perfect world, I would go for a 10x which would give me 10% chance, but roulette betting options are quite limited, especially when you only have one chip.¡± Bob continued to nod amiably, but he¡¯d zoned out most of the figures. I mean the man was really just saying the same thing over and over in different ways: he had some long odds in front of him and he was scared shitless. Bob agreed. It was a fair and accurate assessment of the situation. ¡°What about me? What¡¯s the best play for me here? You¡¯d couldn¡¯t give a man a tip could you?¡± ¡°You have four chips, right? Well then a straight 3x bet is the way to go. Put it on 1-12. 33% chance. And all over in one go¡­¡± Henry trailed off, but Bob knew what the man was driving at. The poor sod would have to make three life and death bets in a row and he¡¯d just got over losing the last one. If it were Bob, a less rational, more practical man, he would have been tempted to stick the chip on the double zero and just pray the gods took pity. Win or lose, it¡¯d be over in the blink of an eye. ¡°You sure you don¡¯t want a drink?¡± Henry seemed to waver. ¡°It won¡¯t change the odds.¡± ¡°No, I¡¯d rather face the end with my wits about me.¡± ¡°Fair enough¡± Bob knew he¡¯d rather face his end absolutely shit-faced, but these kind of questions come down to a man¡¯s character. And Bob had enough tact not to argue the point. A round had just finished and people were laying down bets. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to bet?¡± Henry asked, turning to Bob. ¡°What?¡± Bob spluttered, choking on his bear. ¡°Right now?¡± ¡°Is waiting going to do you any good?¡± Chapter 18 - Here goes death Bob gaped at the man sitting next to him. "Aren¡¯t you going to bet," he had said, like they were playing poker at a mate¡¯s house after work and all that was at stake was who was paying for drinks. Sure, Bob knew he had to bet eventually. He grasped the concept. That¡¯s what they were here for after all. But a man is not a machine. You can¡¯t just push a button and get yourself to do a thing. He had to prepare himself. There was a lot of psychological winding up to be done. Betting was all about mindset wasn¡¯t it? Bob tried to look unfazed and said in a throw-away tone of voice: ¡°Well there¡¯s no rush is there.¡± He gestured his chin at his unfinished beer. ¡°I¡¯m still polishing off my drink here. And, you know, I mean, the long game and all¡­¡± ¡°Hm¡­¡± Henry looked away, obviously unimpressed with Bob¡¯s stellar acting. ¡°Well I¡¯m betting.¡± ¡°What?¡± Bob knocked over his little stack of chips as he whirled around. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t just sit here. Knowing I have to do it and not doing it. It¡¯s torture isn¡¯t it? The longer I wait the harder it¡¯s going to be.¡± And before Bob could reason with the man, point out that the situation need hardly be quite as uncomfortable as he made it out to be, that there were several silver linings if only he¡¯d open his eyes, Henry had thrown down his chips on red. ¡°Take ¡®em back. Quick. There¡¯s still time.¡± Bob almost did it himself, but then came the cool, professional call from the dealer: ¡°All bets final,¡± and the wheel began to spin around. ¡°Shit, shit, shit¡­ What just like that. Give a man some warning.¡± Bob was floundering about, almost knocking over his drink. The ball spun around and around in haunting, mesmerizing circles. And then, and then, ¡°come on red, come on red,¡± Bob was on his feet, cheering and shouting. The ball stopped. The dealer read out the number: ¡°Black 16, Black 16.¡± Henry looked dead on his feet. He had slumped against the table. And then he shot up, looking left and right, searching for the very thing he was afraid to find. There: the sound of booted feet tramping closer. Two suits were forcing their way through the crowd. Bob thought he caught the larger of the two smirking at him. Bastards. Henry turned to Bob. ¡°Please¡­¡± He fell to the ground and grabbed Bob¡¯s knees. He was sobbing, the older man in his fine suit, with his high, complicated talk and business meetings with potential clients. He was looking up at Bob like Bob was the angel of judgement sitting on heaven¡¯s throne with a naked sword in one hand and the olive leaf in the other. ¡°For fuck sake, for fuck sake¡­¡± Bob hesitated only for a moment, then he threw a chip onto the ground. ¡°Take it, take it already.¡± Henry dived for it, grabbed it, held it up in front of him like it would somehow shield him from the hands of those black-suited men. ¡°That¡¯s the last one. I swear to god. The last one. Don¡¯t ask me again. Promise me.¡± ¡°I promise, I promise, of course.¡± The suits didn¡¯t look happy. But they traipsed back off to whatever hidden box they came from. ¡°So Henry, what do my chances look like now.¡± Henry took a moment to regain his dignity. He stood smoothly up, patted down his suit and returned to his seat like nothing had happened. ¡°With three chips, you¡¯ll have to do red or black, the fifty-fifty chance twice. Roughly 25% odds.¡± ¡°Those odds don¡¯t sound too rosy, Henry, not too rosy at all.¡± ¡°Look here, Bob. If I get my 2x, 2x, 3x, I¡¯ll have twelve chips. I only need ten to get out so I¡¯ll give you the two I don¡¯t need. Then we¡¯ll be even.¡± ¡°Fine, fine. But please don¡¯t lose again.¡± This comment earned Bob a wounded look from the man, like Bob thought Henry was somehow trying to lose. "You want a short break? Take a short break. Come on have a beer with me. It¡¯ll calm you down. It¡¯s magic beer, I¡¯m telling you. You¡¯ve got to try it." ¡°No, no. I want to be myself at the end.¡± The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Better to be somebody else no?¡± He cracked a weak smile at that. Bob called over the waiter and ordered himself another. No point in holding back now. When Bob turned around, Henry was already at the table again. ¡°What, Henry, already? Hold on a second. Give a man¡¯s heart a break.¡± Henry ignored him. He slapped everything on black. ¡°Dammit Henry, if you fucking lose again¡­¡± Henry continued to ignore him. The ball span and span. It slotted silently into the pocket and the dealer announced the number: ¡°Red 30¡±. Henry pounded the table. ¡°It¡¯s rigged. The game is rigged. Bob. I¡¯ve lost eight times in a row. Eight times. Do you know what the odds on that are? 1 in 256, less than a half a percent,¡± he turned on Bob who had already started backing away, ¡°Bob, Bob, you¡¯ve got to help me.¡± Somewhere a door was being opened. ¡°Bob, please, Bob, just one more time. I promise. I promise.¡± Bob gritted his teeth. I mean the man was cursed. He couldn¡¯t do it. He couldn¡¯t give him another chip. Bob only had three left. ¡°Bob, Bob, look at me.¡± Bob looked everywhere but. The men in suits arrived. They were positively beaming. ¡°All done here?¡± The suit had the gall to ask. And Bob¡¯s silence was answer enough. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re coming with us.¡± ¡°Bob, please, Bob, you¡¯ve got to save me.¡± The men in suits started to drag Henry away. ¡°Bob, Bob, you can¡¯t do this to me. Bob, help me.¡± Henry was writhing and struggling. ¡°Anyone, someone, help! Please¡­ I have children. A wife.¡± He was shouting at the top of his lungs, looking wildly around, latching on to every eye that caught his gaze. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this. You can let me go.¡± Now he appealed to the man in the black suit. The man just laughed. ¡°No, no, no¡­ this can¡¯t be the end.¡± There was spit rolling down his chin. His face flushed and then drained white. He went limp, mumbling on to himself, and the suits dragged him away to those black doors at the back of the casino. Bob staggered back to his seat and crumbled onto the stool. A timely arrival of the waiter saw him order a shot of straight whiskey. Pity was damn expensive, Bob thought to himself, damn expensive and somehow it just left one feeling like some heartless bastard at the end. He knew he¡¯d been right. He knew he¡¯d acted sensibly. The man had been a bloody quagmire. The more you put into him, the more you were dragged down. Bob didn¡¯t pretend to understand fate. But he knew what he saw. He knew the look of a dead-end when he saw one. Still the episode left a bitter taste. He gulped down the shot. It helped a little and he promptly signaled for another. That¡¯s what happens when you try to be nice. It¡¯s a cruel world. Maybe it always was. But now you can¡¯t help but see it. Three chips left. Only three chips and a 25% chance at walking out of here alive. What a way to die. He still heard the bastards laughing as they dragged Henry away. Would anything stop him spending his whole life here? He waved over the waiter again, who had decided it was more efficient to just hover a few steps behind Bob than try to serve the rest of the company. ¡°Hey, you got any nuts or something. Any bar food?¡± The waiter brought over a bowl of crisps and a square napkin. ¡°Now we¡¯re talking. Thanks mate.¡± He accelerated a handful of fried potatoes towards his gullet and bit down greedily. Bob groaned. Cheese and onion. He hated that flavor. He picked up the little paper napkin and spat out as much as he could. Then he rolled it up and dropped it on the floor (it¡¯s not a real casino). That had been disappointing. ¡°Hey, you don¡¯t have any other flavors do you? What about ready salted? You must have ready salted?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, sir.¡± ¡°Only cheese and onion?¡± ¡°Yes sir.¡± ¡°Fine, fine, fine,¡± and he waved the man off. Bob took another sip of whiskey. Bob didn¡¯t really enjoy the taste of whiskey. It was too sophisticated for him. He didn¡¯t want to have to work so hard to appreciate what he was drinking. He wasn¡¯t sure why he¡¯d ordered it. It had just felt like the thing to order. He wondered if they¡¯d get annoyed if he ordered another beer before finishing the whiskey. They wouldn¡¯t mind, right? No, somehow he didn¡¯t think they¡¯d let him stay on here indefinitely. They¡¯d kick him out sooner or later. And anyway what a place to grow old in. You¡¯d be better off dead maybe. He¡¯d have to do it, he supposed. Of course, he had to do it. He¡¯d known that he would from the very start. That¡¯s what the challenge was really. You had to be able to bet your life on a chance outside of your own power. You had to be able to give up control. To accept weakness, fate, luck. Only someone who could do that would make their way in this new world. But you can''t help hoping for another way, now can you? Isn¡¯t that what procrastination is it at its heart? A naive hope that the problem will go away on its own if you can only wait long enough. Be nice if it worked some of the time. He downed the rest of the whiskey. Bwah¡­ That stuff burned. Could anyone really drink this stuff for pleasure? But if he was going to die, and odds were more likely than not, he wanted to go out looking like a G and not like some sod who leaves two-thirds of his whisky undrunk in the glass. Things were a little hazy. He¡¯d been on the dehydrated side before he¡¯d reached the casino and those two whiskies certainly hadn¡¯t improved things. Good thing there was nothing complicated to do. A hamster could play roulette. ¡°Here goes death,¡± he slurred, collecting up his stack of chips (all three), no half measures for Bob and spilled them onto red. Red meant blood and mercy and fast cars. Bob had a good feeling about red. Nothing was more compelling than the logic of colors. The ritual of betting wound up. There was a lot of money on 13-24 for some reason and some dreamer had put a stack on 29. The dealer started the ball rolling. Bob looked. Bob looked away. Bob ordered another drink. Hell it might just be his last. Bob tried another a crisp. God that stuff was rancid. He put the half-eaten crisp back in the bowl. The ball stopped. Chapter 19 - Again The ball stopped. Bob turned around. He wasn¡¯t really focusing. He was wondering where the waiter had gotten to. It was the collective silence that had attracted his attention. The dealer¡¯s voice came to him from far away. ¡°Red 13, Red 13.¡± The dealer pushed over three chips and doubled his stack. Everything was as it should be. ¡°Let it ride. Let it ride.¡± Bob waved a hand in the direction of the table. There was the waiter with his beer. ¡°Look I know I already asked. But I won¡¯t be able to rest easy until I try again.¡± The ball had started up again. ¡°You don¡¯t have any other flavor of crisp do you? Anything¡­¡± The waiter folded his arms behind his back and look dispassionately at the bowl of chips on the table. ¡°I¡¯m afraid these are all we have.¡± ¡°Come on, you must have something. Maybe a pack has fallen out of the shelf and got tucked under somewhere? Did you check all the cupboards.¡± ¡°I¡¯m very sorry sir.¡± ¡°Well what about cooked food. You got any eggs?¡± The ball bounced, rolled, slowed. ¡°I¡¯m afraid, there¡¯s no kitchen here.¡± ¡°Aha, what about cherries? You must have cherries for the drinks.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have to check with the other staff.¡± ¡°Do that. Please. Thank you.¡± Bob turned back just in time to catch the dealer say: ¡°Red 35, Red 35.¡± Oh my god, Bob muttered to himself, as he watched the dealer push out 6 more chips beside his stack. That made twelve, twelve chips. He¡¯d done it. It had been easy. Maybe his luck stat meant something after all. He took a long draft from his beer. Tastes like freedom. The waiter appeared at his shoulder. He carried a martini glass full of cherries. ¡°Will this do sir?¡± ¡°Jeeves, good man, you¡¯ve done good. This will hit the spot nicely.¡± Bob plucked out a cherry and plopped it into his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet. ¡°I¡¯m afraid my name is not Jeeves, sir.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it Jeeves. I promise I won¡¯t hold it against you.¡± ¡°Will that be all sir.¡± ¡°Yes, that will be all. I¡¯ll just finish my beer and these cherries and I¡¯ll be out of your hair.¡± Bob thought he heard someone say something. ¡°What was that, Jeeves?¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid I haven''t spoken sir.¡± ¡°No I¡¯m sure I heard something. Didn¡¯t you hear anything?¡± ¡°Ah yes sir, you must be referring to the dealer. He just closed the betting for this round.¡± Bob paled. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°I was saying sir, that the dealer just announced the betting closed for this round.¡± The familiar, awful sound of the ball starting to spin underscored the waiter¡¯s comment. ¡°Jeeves, Jeeves, you¡¯ve ruined me. What you¡¯d come here and distract me for. Ruined, ruined I say.¡± ¡°I beg your pardon sir.¡± Bob¡¯s eyes were glued on the little ball as it spiraled around the wheel, as it arbitrarily and unfairly determined his fate. He¡¯d gone and done it this time. He¡¯d really stuck his foot in it. Twelve chips, twelve whole chips. Two wins in a row had already been a miracle. Three, why three was an impossibility, an absurdity. He¡¯d never had a chance. No, no, that was the point, he had. He had had his chance. After everything, this, this was how he died. Bob closed his eyes. It was over. He was over. ¡°Red 11, Red 11.¡± Bob opened his eyes. He¡¯d misheard surely. It couldn¡¯t be. No way. He wouldn¡¯t believe it. Twenty four chips. Twenty four. His hand jerked out to sweep up the chips and then he caught himself. Every instinct was screaming at him to bail. Begging him not to cast his fate again on the whims of a little, white ball. But he was on a roll here. Three in a row. He was on a fucking roll. You can¡¯t hit if you don¡¯t swing. Bob wavered. He had maybe fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds to decide. Was he going to walk out of here, the half-naked mud splatted idiot who risked everything to scrap out the exit fee, or was he going to walk out of here a hero? It was an insane move. The highest form of idiocy. Redeemed only by the fact that if he lost, they¡¯d take him off to a back room and kill him so he wouldn¡¯t have to live with the shame of it. Bob had lived a mediocre life. He¡¯d been a regular village nobody. Our world has plenty of room for nobodies and he had rolled along just fine. But things would be different after this. That was for sure. He had a feeling he was headed for a world where you either took risks or you died. He was on a roll now, wasn¡¯t he, three in a row, heaven had never given him a clearer sign. If he didn¡¯t bet here, would he ever? This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Bob clenched the side of the table until his knuckles turned white. ¡°Whiskey,¡± he shouted to the table at large, ¡°I need whiskey.¡± ¡°Final bets,¡± the dealer warned. The waiter appeared with a glass of amber liquid. Bob said nothing. He took the drink and downed it all in a single pass. The night was still young. When he heard that whining sound of the ball careening around the wheel, all his doubts came back. He¡¯d blown it. He was the dumbest, maddest motherfucker on this blue earth. He¡¯d pissed away heaven¡¯s gift. And then he¡¯d called for whiskey, the stuff that tastes like poison. But poison was just what he needed about now. ¡°Waiter, fill her up.¡± The ball wobbled to a stop. ¡°Red 9, Red 9.¡± 48 chips. 48 bloody chips. His trembling hands stretched out for the pile. Not yet, not yet, Bob, the fire¡¯s still burning. The wheel spins. Red 5. 96 chips. Ninety-fucking-six. That was enough, surely, that was enough. Everybody else had stopped betting. They were all just gazing wide-eyed at his massive pile of chips. The dealer too was starting to look a little uneasy. ¡°Do you mean to play on, sir?¡± He asked. Bob grinned savagely at the man. The cool, inhuman dealer who had pronounced death on how many poor souls in that level, unruffled, even bored voice. ¡°Let ¡®em ride.¡± And then another thought came to him. ¡°All of you,¡± Bob addressed the assembled masses, ¡°it¡¯ll be red next. Mark my words.¡± Everybody was just gaping at him, not knowing what to think. But a tower of ninety-six chips is a compelling argument. Everybody piled in. There must have been three hundred chips on red. Not a soul bet on anything else. The dealer swayed a little but managed to get out the ritual phrase: ¡°all bets final.¡± He cranked the wheel about. Nobody moved. Nobody sipped their glass or turned to their neighbor. They all just watched. ¡°Red 19,¡± the dealer said in a quiet, defeated voice. 192 chips. The dealer reached into a drawer to swap out for a higher denomination chip. Then he made to push the pile over towards Bob. Bob blocked him with a hand. ¡°Again.¡± Red had come up six times in a row at this point. Doubt and fear pulsed across the crowd. Red couldn¡¯t come up again. It couldn¡¯t. It wouldn¡¯t. The crazy man in the ridiculous outfit was going too far. ¡°Why not take out 100, play it safe.¡± Someone advised with genuine concern in their voice. But Bob, Bob was beyond all such things. He¡¯d reached the heights of ecstasy, of madness, of power. Maybe it was the sheer risk, maybe it was the drink, or maybe it was the ridiculous streak of good luck, but pulling out now seemed absolutely absurd. Bob felt like he could see the flow of fate. Like there was a golden stream coursing through the air around him. If he stepped back now, if he wavered even for a moment, pulled back just an inch, the whole current would collapse down and melt away into sparkling dust. ¡°Again,¡± he grunted, choking down another shot. The dealer physically flinched at the word. No one joined him on red. Almost nobody bet at all. Everyone was swept up in the grand showdown. A few cynics tried a couple chips on black, betting on the turn. But fate laughs at them. The ball span, slowed, stopped and the dealer paled: ¡°Red 21.¡± 384 chips. The dealer glanced up at the black camera stationed over the table. And then at Bob with a sort of pathetic, pleading expression. ¡°Again.¡± The dealer whimpered like he taken a blow to the back. ¡°But sir,¡± he tried. Bob cut off him: ¡°Again.¡± Nobody even tried to bet this time. Nobody even dared. 768 chips. ¡°Again.¡± 1536 chips. At this point a grey-haired man came out, wearing an expensive suit and stood next to the dealer. He looked like a manager type. Bob didn¡¯t care. ¡°Again.¡± 3072 chips. The manager sidled over to Bob¡¯s table, signaling the waiter to bring them both fresh drinks. He started congratulating Bob. He wanted to shake Bob¡¯s hand. He tried to pull Bob over to some vip room. Bob ignored him completely and just kept repeated the same solitary word: ¡°again, again, again.¡± ¡°Red 33,¡± the dealer squeaked out, twitching a little as he met eyes with the grey-haired manager. 6144 chips. The manager looked at Bob and then at the mountain of chips on the red square. They¡¯d stopped stacking it three rounds back and it was just a mass of plastic, even threatening to spill over into the other squares. ¡°Please, you¡¯ll bring down the house. Why don¡¯t you call it a night? Enjoy your winnings. I¡¯d hate to see you lose it all.¡± Bob didn¡¯t even look at the man. Bob was cold, hard. Mercy? There would be no mercy. One of them would die here. It was him or them. That¡¯s what this was now. This was a duel to the death. He wouldn¡¯t stop. Nobody, nothing could hold him back. Bob smiled evilly and everyone around him seemed to shrink back a little. ¡°Again.¡± The dealer glanced pleadingly at the manager. But the manager was at a loss for words; he just gazed horrified at Bob. The ball spins playfully around the wheel, inexorable, impartial, like the divine will itself, utterly beyond human comprehension. 12,288. The manager pulls out a cigarette and fumbles it between his lips. He digs out a lighter from his jacket pocket. The light clicks and clicks, but he can¡¯t get it to catch. ¡°Again.¡± The cigarette slips out of the manger¡¯s mouth and falls to the ground. A hush has descended over the crowd. The dealer¡¯s chip box looks strangely empty. He starts the wheel and the ball spirals around. The ball catches. It hovers over a red square, then starts to tip back, the crowd gasps, and the ball falls through. Red 29. 24,516 chips. The dealer empties his chip box upside down over the table as he tried to make the sum. There aren¡¯t enough. The manager sighs. It was over. Finally. ¡°I¡¯m sorry sir. It appears the table is out of chips. It will need to close for the present. But we¡¯ll make sure to sort out the rest of what you''re owed.¡± Bob doesn¡¯t budge. He doesn¡¯t move. He repeats the fateful word: ¡°again.¡± The manger splutters. ¡°But, sir, there¡¯s no more chips. I¡¯m sorry, but we¡¯re going to have to ask you to leave.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care. Find more. Bet your clothes, the table itself, the building, bet yourself wife or children. It doesn¡¯t matter. I don¡¯t care.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not how it works.¡± ¡°Again, again, again. Don¡¯t you get it. Don¡¯t you know what this is. It¡¯s you or me. One of us is walking out of here with nothing. I¡¯ve bet my life on this roll 15 times in a row. And I say ''again''. Roll it.¡± The dealer shrunk back, vacillating between Bob and his manager. ¡°Again.¡± Bob snarled at him. The dealer crept back to his place beside the wheel. He started the wheel rolling. He dropped the ball in. It span lazily around, not a care in the world, with a jolly, whistling sound. And then it stopped. The dealer choked out the words: ¡°Red 7.¡± The manager collapsed to the floor. Everybody was silent. Bob stood up, drained his glass and said in a low voice that seemed to carry all around the room: ¡°You¡¯re all free now.¡± Chapter 20 - Heaven’s Fool The casino, the players, the table, the wretched dealer whimpering in the corner, the grey-haired manager crumbled on the floor, everything melted away and Bob was left standing in a formless white space. Before him was the system message:
Challenge Four Completed! Congratulations. Final Grade - S Current pass percentage: 58%
Bob had done it. It was over then right? Over... Bob couldn''t believe it. It couldn''t be over... This wasn''t a nightmare you woke up from. This was the endless nightmare. The death dream. No, that was it, Bob was passed out on the casino floor from a severe case of alcohol poisoning; the message, the white space, they were all some drink-induced hallucination. Dammit Bob. I told you whisky was poison. But why was his mind so clear, so strangely clear. It was like he hadn''t had a drop of the stuff. Or the system had purged his bloodstream. His vision was sharp. He balanced easily. Maybe, no, don''t you dare to hope, but maybe...
All challenges completed: Initiation complete. Calculating final grade... Challenge 1 - E Challenge 2 - E Challenge 3 - E Challenge 4 - S Final Grade Calculated. Final Grade - A System Primer Identified. System Primer Installed. Joker Card Identified. Joker Card Played.
It was really over. Bob couldn''t believe it. It was like he was in a daze. The words didn''t make sense to him. He''d survived? A knot he''d been clenching tight inside himself all this time seemed to loosen. He could breathe again. His chest felt light somehow. He let out a long, deep sigh. Then another. He closed eyes. It was all over. He kept repeating that phrase to himself. Over, over, over. He''d escaped. He''d done it. He was free... That word hung in the air like the lingering echo of a bell, free, free, coloring the space and crystalizing the moment. It hit him then at last. He, he, Robert Brown, most junior QA engineer at his seat-of-the-pants startup, had made it through. He''d been muddied, battered, betrayed, he¡¯d almost given up half a dozen times, he''d seen player after player go down around him, Sally, Henry, others, countless others, but somehow, somehow, he¡¯d made it through. What was this feeling? Like a mad, defiant joy. He ought to be sad. This here was death of civilization. The golden age of mankind, of technology, of self-determination, they were crumbled ashes. The system had swept through and destroyed it all. Bob couldn''t even imagine how many people had died. But he wasn''t one of them. He was still alive. And he was free. He''d never, never have to face something like that again. He''d take George and they''ll live somewhere nice and peaceful; in the country maybe, quiet nights and long walks. He and George. George, Bob swallowed. His happiness sucked away into a whirlpool of desperate worry. He didn''t want to say it. Just in case, just in case, he didn''t want to tempt fate, to tempt the system. The evil system. But God, how Bob hoped George had made it through. George, old George, that lovable idiot, that golden rug lying in all the most inconvenient places. My George. Bob didn¡¯t want to have to come back to an empty apartment. He didn¡¯t think he could take it. Bob started to cry. Maybe some human player had taken pity on those brown eyes and golden fur. Bob knew he would have. Bob knew he would have saved George, no matter the cost. Really? Really Bob? You sure talk the talk, but what have you done, really? A twelve year old girl, Bob. She''d only been twelve years old. And she begged you for mercy, tears in her eyes, she begged you. No, no. It''s only right. It''s only fair that you should lose something too. George. Bob was sobbing, his shoulders shuddering with every labored breath. Don''t leave me here George. But his hopes caught in his throat. How could George have defeated the boar? How could George have solved the escape room? Bob better steel himself. He better turn his heart to stone. The system didn''t play favorites. The system didn''t care. Bob tried to pull himself together. He did try. He¡¯d seen things hadn¡¯t he? He¡¯d lost people right before his eyes. He was strong wasn''t he? He''d made it this far. Nothing helped. Nothing made the thought any easier, any more bearable. Wiping away the tears that kept on falling, Bob struggled through his remaining notifications.
Achievement: Bringing Down the House Description: Players are supposed to lose. Bankrupt a system casino. Effect:
Bob had thrown his stone hadn''t he? He''d thrown it at the system and the initiation and the madness of it all. One stone into the endless ocean, but here were the ripples. He saw the manager pleading with him to stop. Well the man got what was coming to him. Bob didn¡¯t pity him one drop. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Bob''s heart fluttered as he read down to the effect. That''s what Bob needed. That''s all he needed right now, a little more luck. There was one more bet he needed to win. The most important of them all. He decided then and there that he wouldn''t give up on George, no matter how much it hurt to hope. He wouldn''t turn his heart to stone. He wouldn''t try to imagine a world without George. And with that resolution, Bob felt a little calmer. He felt an echo of that trance-like mindset, that self-deception; he was going to win. He didn''t know how or why but he was going to win.
Achievement: S-ranked Challenger Description: Talk about overkill. Achieve a rank of S in a system initiation challenge Effect: A minor percentage bonus to all base stats
Bob grinned wickedly. That¡¯s what you get for giving me three Es in a row. Sometimes a man just needs the opportunity to shine. Bob hadn''t even known there was an S rank. Well Bob was someone who did the impossible. And the system better remember the fact. Bob might just have been the only sentient on earth to achieve S rank. Scratch that, Bob was definitely the only sentient on earth to achieve S rank. I mean, of course, it was nothing, requiring just an everyday sixteen back-to-back death-defying bets. It was hard to see why ordinary mortals would even attempt such a feat, let alone have the good luck to survive it. Actually thinking about it now, what the hell had Bob been thinking? Did he have death wish? What had he been playing at? He tried to explain to himself what had happened. At the start, it was... um... cough, well, an accident, damn cherries, but halfway through he''d started to sense something. It was like a golden current in the air, like he was seeing luck flow through the room, like he knew he was going to win. Hearing himself describe the experience did not reassure Bob. No, it made Bob think he deserved to be dead. Was he really claiming he could see luck? What the hell was luck. There was a much simpler and more compelling explanation. Bob summed up the episode in five words: "that was some strong whiskey." Magic beer, strong whiskey, he needed to be a bit more careful next time he ordered system drinks.
Achievement: Stellar Initiate Description: We expect great things. Complete the system initiation with a final rank of A Effect:
Three Es and an S got you an A? What scoring system did the system use? That was not a curve Bob was familiar with. Still Bob wasn¡¯t complaining. And let¡¯s be honest those had all been very high Es. Bob came to the last message:
Choose your class:
It was happening, wasn''t it? Bob had suspected of course. The "system initiation," all those achievements with their stat increases, the primer''s table of contents, Bob had fallen into one of those novels he spent all his free time reading. And this here was payday. The boon given to those skilled or lucky enough to survive four challenges. This is what they had all been working up to. A class, abilities, power beyond a mortal¡¯s imagination. Bob couldn''t help being a little excited. A little too excited. "Show me fire wizard. Come on fire wizard," Bob shouted at the grey text in front of him. There was nothing more epic than a cloaked figure manipulating primordial fire.
Calculating possible classes... Calculation finished. Available classes:
Bob waited. Bob kept waiting. He knew what was happening but he didn¡¯t want to acknowledge it just yet. When the message stayed frozen and no additional classes were added to the very short list, Bob shook his head and sighed. Come on, only one¡­ That¡¯s some right bull isn¡¯t it.
Choose your class:
Was that sarcastic? What was he supposed to choose, there was only the one option. Bob was angry now. He¡¯d been through too much, lost too much. Somewhere far away from Bob, George was struggling, suffering, and without even understanding why Bob had abandoned him. Somewhere maybe George had... no. Bob tried to smash the screen in front of him. Except there was no screen; the message was floating in empty space, projected onto his vision by an all-seeing, badly-behaved system with a poor sense of humor. There was no appeal. There was no justice for the weak. The strong do what they can, the weak suffer what they must. Bob resigned himself. Powerlessness. That was the true lesson of this system initiation. Hammered into each initiate by a relentless, arbitrary will. Bob did not like the sound of that class: ¡°Heaven¡¯s Fool.¡± Heaven¡¯s warrior, Heaven¡¯s chosen, Heaven¡¯s champion, those were proper class names, those were classes Bob could get behind. Those were the seeds of legends. Heaven¡¯s Fool, on the other hand¡­
Choose your class
Fine, fine, oh mighty system¡­ You can¡¯t resist fate, he muttered to himself, as he pushed down on the option.
Class: Heaven''s Fool (unique) Heaven watches and laughs Level Bonus: Ability Tree: N/A (Slot machine - Each evolution, select a random ability)
This had to be worst class ever. All the stats were random and there was even a stat decrease each level? Bob wanted to cry. That was a slap in the face. Bob had a pretty good idea of just how system randomness worked. He didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever encountered anything less random. Bob could see it now. Every level it would assign all his increases to ¡°wisdom¡± or ¡°vitality¡± or some other useless stat. Maybe pairing the increase with a sneering message saying how it hoped he had learned something new in the process. He hadn¡¯t fought through those four challenges only to be saddled with this dead-weight class and have to crawl around begging and praying to be saved as the system watched and laughed. There had to be another choice. He looked around for some back button. He tried voice commands: ¡°back,¡± ¡°return¡±, ¡°restart,¡± ¡°undo¡±. It all had no effect. Finally he tried, ¡°mercy,¡± and he thought he heard a faint laugh far away. Ah that would be the heavens wouldn¡¯t it? Bob had just about worked his way down to the ability tree section by this point. That was when he really lost his head. No way, that is unbelievable. That is just too unfair. No concept, no complementary powers. You¡¯ve just going to stick me with a random ability. That¡¯s such BS. I bet everyone else is going to come back with cool, other-worldly powers and you¡¯ll have assigned me a proficiency at card-tricks or gardening or some obscure and impossibly impractical weapon. At least let me choose something. I don¡¯t get any free stats and I don¡¯t even get to pick my abilities. Where¡¯s my free will? Another distinct chuckle. Well at least Bob was living up to his new class. He sighed loudly. ¡°We¡¯ll all powerless before the mighty system, I prostrate myself in fear, well whatever, if you aren¡¯t going to play ball. We might as well get this over with. What ability are you going to screw me with this time?¡± Chapter 21 - Lesser Human A slot machine window appeared in front of Bob. There were three visible rows and each row had a single line of text with an ability written on it. Bob perked up a little bit when he saw the kind of options they were talking about. There was some good stuff here: invisibility, fireball, sword-mastery. Bob knew straight off what he wanted. There it was smack in the center, I mean who didn¡¯t want it really, it was the true anime classic, anybody would look badass shooting balls of fire out of their hand. Beside the window stood an exaggerated slot arm connected to... thin air. Very considerate, got to give a man at least the illusion of choice. Well that about sums up the history of systematic oppression. Bob cranked the arm with a call of ¡°Come on fireball.¡± The text span around and arcade music blared louder and louder with each rotation. The music crescendoed, dun, dun, ¡°lightning¡±, ¡°flight¡±, the window jerked unnaturally forward and groaned to a halt: ¡°mud manipulation.¡± Bob¡¯s vision went red. He gritted his teeth together. "Fucking setup," he managed to hiss out. Bob closed his eyes. His head was pounding. He felt a burning in his chest. He wanted to do something. What could he do? Nothing. He sighed out as much of that liquid fire as he could, but it still hurt, it still smoldered and smoked deep in the pit of his stomach. Why do I even try? He looked up (as far as there was an up) in this blank, white formless chamber. ¡°Don¡¯t ever pretend to me that that was random. It¡¯s disgraceful. Just disgraceful.¡± Mud manipulation, the letters flashed red and a system message appeared:
Skill: Mud Manipulation (Authority) Feel the Mud, Young Puddler. Effect: Grants unbounded authority over all forms of mud
Bob wanted to kill the system. Shortly followed by himself. Sometimes it''s better to die than compromise your principles. He looked wildly around for his knife. It wasn''t there. Some rope? No luck. Maybe he could bite through his tongue. Sounded rather painful. Raincheck maybe?
Companion Object finalized.
Bob''s body started to tingle. Oh no, maybe the system doesn''t handle heresy well. "Forgive your measly slave, oh great and might system." The hardened mud shell (that Bob had been wearing in the absence of clothes) liquified and started to flow together. Death by mud, Bob thought, talk about on theme. Except the mud floated up and above Bob, and started composing itself into a humanoid-like shape. Suddenly there was a pulse of bright, golden light. Bob shaded his eyes and missed the moment something fell lightly around him. He pulled away his hand to see a long, brown mantle. It hung all the way down to his ankles, billowing about him. There was a deep hood on the back. Bob flicked it up. "Smells like mud," he muttered to himself.
Companion Object: The Mud Magician''s Mantle A cloak of woven, living mud. Effect: Equipping the cloak counts as covering the entire body with mud
Bob sighed. It was a cool item, he acknowledged that. He could also see that it was obviously custom-made. An object uniquely designed for his ability and achievements. Mud monster, his first serious achievement, granted a minor percentage increase to all base stats. It required however that his body be entirely covered with mud. Without this cloak Bob would have had to go full-Rambo all the time and face difficult questions from his friends and loved ones. The cloak was easier. Bob wasn''t stupid and he could see the cloak complemented his new mud manipulation ability. The cloak could act as armor, weapon, camouflage. It would let him fight on unfriendly terrain, desert, city street, snowscape. It also looked pretty badass. Something Gandalf might have tried on at his local department store. Bob glanced himself up and down and flared out the cloak with his hand. He nodded approvingly at the effect. But, but¡­ I mean, why, why did everything have to be about mud? If there was one theme to Bob''s system initiation, one repeated symbol, it was the distinctive, squelchy brown compound. And Bob hated mud. Surely that couldn''t be an accident? The system was going out of its way to define Bob¡¯s image as some kind of mud fetish maniac. And maddeningly it was succeeding. Was it already too late? Could Bob go back to being a normal boy? Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Calculating Attributes... Attributes Assigned. Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool (unique) Level: 1 (0%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,902,200 credits Stats:
What was this nonsense? Bob wanted to see numbers. Numbers had a pleasing objectivity to them. 2 was bigger than 1 which was smaller than 3. Numbers communicated certainty; they invited comparisons. Bob wanted to watch his numbers go up as he trained and leveled. This? This was so wishy-washy. He didn¡¯t really know what to take away from it all. But he understood enough to be pretty offended at those numbers. Strength, sure, he didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever quite made it inside a gym (awful, smelly places full of mirrors to make you feel bad about yourself). He had worked a desk job. It was the curse of the age. It wasn¡¯t Bob¡¯s fault. But feeble wisdom? Come on, system, that¡¯s a little low isn¡¯t it. Hell, what does wisdom even mean? I took philosophy at uni. You¡¯d think that would have counted for something. But ¡°feeble¡±, ¡°feeble¡± felt cruelly low. Bob wondered what the average child scored. Hoping against hope that the answer was not average. There were two true standouts on the sheet. One: his wealth. Congratulations, you''re a millionaire. Bob was a millionaire. And not even one of those barely-scrap-into-the-bracket millionaires. He was the real deal. Just short of five million. It looked like he''d been allowed to keep any winnings in excess of the exit fee. That was a pleasant surprise. The second standout was his luck stat. Godly luck. Bob felt this was a massive over exaggeration. If anything, he considered himself serially unlucky. The system integration had struck right as he got into the bath. He''d faced three to one odds in the third challenge and one of his adversaries could fly for heaven''s sake. This was a conscious jab at his accomplishments. The system was basically undercutting him. Godly luck¨Cread: you just lucked into everything and ought to have been pancaked. And the guy who lucks into everything, never gets any respect. No respect. Bob rubbed his eyebrows back and shook his head. What was that? Bob had noticed the race line at the top of his status: ¡°Race - Human (lesser).¡± Who are you calling a lesser human? Bob was slightly above-average height. I don¡¯t know where you get off, calling me lesser. Lesser system, he mumbled to himself. What was it about being all-powerful that made deities so petty? The whole process had been a shit-show. Where was the legendary power-up? He was supposed to get epic gear, a mythical class and insane magic. Instead he¡¯d been stuck with a joke class and called a lesser human with below average intelligence and feeble wisdom. It was also hard for Bob to see how his stats would improve over time given the vague wording of his level bonuses. How many token boosts did it take to bring "below average" to "average"? Three, five, ten? Whatever the system decided would be the most annoying. I¡¯m going to die with feeble wisdom aren¡¯t I? Despair fast and despair often.
Commencing initiation shutdown protocol... Final Grade Assignment complete. Class Assignment complete. Companion Object Assignment complete. Attribute Assignment complete. World Terraform complete. Closing simulation instance...
Guess this is it. Bob tried to prepare himself for the impending teleportation. Naturally he failed. Direction within the simulation didn¡¯t seem to correspond with direction in the target location. So when he was blinked back, he suddenly found himself prone, face up and hovering a few generous inches above his bath. He fell awkwardly, the metal facet jamming itself into the back of his head as water (now quite cold) splashed out of the tub and onto the tiled floor. His assortment of gathered junk rained down around him, a few remaining apples, the exercise book, pencil case, necklace, spectacles, string, stones and other rubbish. He covered his head just in time to avoid the hail of useless objects. When the onslaught had finished, he spent a minute rubbing the red spot on the back of his head and watched his mud cloak slowly soil the surviving bath water. Bob stared up, hello, the ceiling had disappeared. Furthermore, it looked like it might be about to rain. Not a light drizzle either. There were black ominous clouds gathering on the horizon. A storm was brewing. And it wasn¡¯t just the ceiling that had gone. The room seemed to have been ripped wholesale out of his apartment and transported somewhere far away. That last message had said something about a world terraform. Bob reached out to the tap. Maybe he still had water. He gave the handle a hopeful turn. No water came out. Yep, that sounds about right. Bob swallowed. He''d been trying to put it out of his mind. It hadn''t worked of course. He''d been telling himself everything would be alright. That he would make it right. But nothing is stronger than doubt. Time to face the inevitable. Time to crush out the last dregs of hope. Bob slowly pulled himself out of the tub. Water dripped down on the already soaking floor. He moved towards the half-open door. It won¡¯t take a moment. Just pull the door back. Chapter 22 - The pain of knowing Bob had doubled-back to the tub and slowly started picking up his things. Slowly, very slowly, consciously slowly. Almost like he was putting something off. Sometimes he''d drop a thing, all accidental of course, just like one does sometimes, and then you know he''d have to pick up again and, who knows, sometimes you might drop a thing twice. No point in rushing the thing. It was important to keep one''s possessions in good order. He was being sensible and forward-thinking. Finally, after an unreasonable length of time, he''d neatly stacked up all the objects on his bathroom counter. Hm... he frowned at the odd selection. Now where did that system primer get to? Or the jamphlet now that I think about it? Did the system practice petty theft upon its candidates? Was he supposed to have carved out reading time during the challenges? There might have been something in the system logs, but he mostly skimmed those things. It was all flavor text wasn''t it? Well might as well double, triple-check that they aren''t somewhere around here on the floor. It''s not impossible for them to have teleported inside the cabinets, is it? Nothing impossible any more. Bob noticed his toothbrush by the sink. And cherries are quite sugary. He wouldn''t want to get a cavity would he? He squeezed a dollop of toothpaste and gave his teeth a slow, thorough brush. What? He''d missed a couple sessions hadn''t he? What would his dentist say if he slacked off on brushing just because of a system apocalypse. Bob was a better man than that. "Bob, you have to look. " "I don''t want to." "You have to. " "No I don''t. I couldn''t take it. I can''t bear it." "Listen to me Bob. You''re making it harder than it is. You''re torturing yourself. The pain of looking is brief. " "Yes, maybe, but the pain of knowing is forever." "But so too is the pain of not knowing. " "Shut up, shut up, I don''t want to talk myself. I don''t want to be wise or noble or better. I just want George back." "Open the door Bob. " Bob let out an animal groan. He knew he had to do it. He covered his eyes, even now trying to delay the moment of discovery. He skulked over to the half-closed door. He grabbed the handle. He waited there. He looked up at the grey, inhuman sky. He sighed out a long breath and torn open the door. It was just as he''d feared, or... A red backpack? It was like one of those leather satchels primary school kids wear. He hadn''t expected that. And there under the backpack, Bob''s mouth fell open, his heart fluttered, it couldn¡¯t be true, it was a system trick, a final bitter jest, somewhere someone was laughing at him, but no, but no, it was true, there was no mistaking that shaggy golden behind. ¡°George,¡± Bob jumped on the dog. Thank god, thank god. George was napping peacefully on the bathroom threshold just where Bob had left him. Napping? Still napping, Bob wondered, half-annoyed and half-amused. He knew animals had had to go through the initiation too. Had George somehow managed to sleep his way through all four trials? Was that a legitimate strategy? But all of these questions could wait. George had lazily opened his eyes and turned his head around to see who had disturbed his slumber. Bob grinned at the dog with tears in his eyes. George sat up (inadvertently shoving Bob off and on to the ground in the process) and spun around wagging his tail. He gave two or three short happy barks and snuggled up to lick Bob¡¯s face. ¡°Tastes like mud, I bet.¡± Thankfully, George didn¡¯t seem to mind. It was at that point Bob finally noticed the incongruity of the scene. His bathroom opened onto great, green plains with tall, wild grass up to your knees and long, rolling hills. It wasn¡¯t exactly the downtown neighborhood he remembered. That got Bob thinking. His bathroom had been torn out of his house and flown to some random place in a transformed world. If George had been lying a tad further out, he¡¯d probably have been sent away with the living room and not be here with Bob at all. Maybe Bob''s luck did count for something after all. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Bob scratched behind George¡¯s ears, and the dog melted down onto Bob¡¯s lap. ¡°We made it through, eh, George? You and me both.¡± Bob shook his head in wonder, still unable to fully believe in the reality of their reunion. He¡¯d put on a brave face (had he?), but deep down he¡¯d thought he''d probably lost the dog. ¡°George, I really have no idea how you did it.¡± The dog purred as Bob continue to stroke his head. ¡°I mean, like, how do you beat up that boar? With those nasty tusks." Bob gestured little pointy fangs on either side of his mouth. No answer from the dog. "Or the casino? I didn''t know you could play roulette." No answer from the dog. "I suppose the system must have some way of communicating its intent to non-literate life forms,¡± Bob mused, ¡°that pigeon sure seemed to know what he was doing.¡± Bob continued to look hopefully at the dog, as though in their time apart George might somehow have learned the trick of human speech and be about to embark on a rich and thrilling narrative of his adventures. The real George, unfortunately, was already starting to fall into another nap. Dogs seem to have an infinite capacity for sleep. Well, all¡¯s well that ends well. Bob looked down at the dog in his arms. He¡¯d missed that face. Something about George¡¯s sleepy yawn and fluffy warmth was tonic to Bob¡¯s soul. Rain started tripping down, a gentle pitter-patter at first, but soon escalating into a full on downpour. "Why did they have to take my roof?" Bob did a quick survey of his surroundings. No shelter in sight. "Guess we¡¯ll just get wet, boy." He scooched up against the wall and stretched out his legs, the dog nestling his head in Bob¡¯s lap. Bob gained a new appreciation for his cloak when he discovered that it was completely waterproof. Nothing like system-craftsmanship. He popped on the hood and wrapped the cloak over himself and George. It was peaceful, peaceful and quietly comfortable, the two of them sitting there, lightning rumbling far away and the beating rain sliding off Bob¡¯s cloak. "So George, what should we do now?" Bob wondered for a while what their new life together might be like. Stranded all alone in an empty grassland with no food, water or electricity. "No, not alone," Bob smiled, looking at that dog face snoring contently. He was strangely cheerful. He felt like he was better prepared and in better company than he¡¯d been for any of the four challenges. And finally he was free from the shadow of semi-impossible, system-imposed labors. Yes, they were both free. They''d both survived. Bob couldn''t believe it. He couldn''t keep his smile under control, it just kept breaking out onto his face. This here is what they call a miracle. He gazed down at the dog, his brown nose wrinkling and unwrinkling with each calm, slow breath. He felt the dog''s comfortable weight on his lap. "I missed you George. I never thought I''d miss you quite so much. But I did. I really did." He ran his fingers through George''s soft, white fur, as George sighed contentedly, lost in happy dreams. Bob had realized what was really important. He didn''t want anything more to do with the system. He wanted to live somewhere quiet with his dog. He didn''t want to be afraid anymore. He didn''t want to have to wake up and wonder whether George would be lying there beside him. Peace and quiet. Life was enough for Bob, he''d decided. He didn''t have to be a legend. He just wanted to get by. The system be damned. Bob was starting to get drowsy himself. George had the right idea. Bob could use a good, long sleep about now. He didn''t think he''d ever been more tired in his life. Bob folded up a portion of his cloak to act as a pillow. He turned his head and leaned back against the bathroom wall. It wasn''t comfortable per se, but Bob could probably have fallen asleep standing up. Hours and hours of an adrenaline-high left a man drained to his core. He''d just gotten cozy, when he caught sight of a couple system notifications piled up in the corner of his vision. He''d overlooked them in his fear-turned-joy at seeing George. He wondered what they said. They intrigued him a little. But no, he''d deal with them in the morning. Self-discipline and all. Bob closed his eyes and waited. Where had that drowsiness of his gone? Sleep seemed to have been delayed somewhere. Maybe he''d missed his train or something. Bob waited semi-patiently. But the trains must not be running. Not a sign of sleep on the horizon. He¡¯d just glance at those messages, eh? While he waited and all. Call it a bad habit from a history of smartphone addiction. It couldn''t hurt could it? "Bob... What happened to self-discipline? I thought you didn''t want anything more to do with the system. You should go to sleep." "I can''t go to sleep without knowing what the notification is. I keep guessing what it might be. It''s distracting me. It''s the reason I can''t fall asleep. I have to look." "No you don''t. At least not today, not right now. " "The pain of looking is brief." "I can''t believe you used that phrase against me." Aha, Bob clicked on the message. The familiar, translucent popup appeared. Bob read the message and groaned to himself.
Quest: D Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade Time limit - one week Current highest leveled sentient: 3 Remaining Time: 06:23:38:43 Reward: None Penalty: World Recycling
Bob wished he hadn¡¯t opened the message. He couldn''t understand why he didn''t listen to himself more. He gave such good advice all the time. Bob reckoned he¡¯d have a good deal harder time falling asleep now. He decided not to view the remaining messages. The fire teaches best. Chapter 23 - The unappreciated beauty of laziness Bob started. He couldn¡¯t feel his right leg. He was crippled. Something had attacked him in the night. It was over. It was all over. Oh wait, Bob gently lowered George¡¯s head to the bathroom floor and started to rub life back into his thigh. The damn thing had fallen asleep. Try to keep your head Bob. Bob yawned. He hadn¡¯t slept well. He¡¯d had a series of awful dreams in which the system repeatedly attempted to recycle him. He¡¯d been rolled flat and repurposed as the label on a bottle of milk. Bob hated milk. It tasted meaty and hollow like something still alive. Bob promised himself he¡¯d never to drink whiskey again. Bob¡¯s leg had entered the pins and needles stage. He had serious business to attend to today. Very serious, very important. Business. Business. But he wouldn¡¯t be mobile again for a few more minutes. Might as well clear out the old system inbox. First, he pulled up the world quest.
Quest: D Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade Time limit - one week Current highest leveled sentient: 4 Remaining Time: 06:16:10:46 Reward: None Penalty: World Recycling
The quest stuck in Bob''s throat. He shook his head. He was supposed to be free. He''d played the system game and he''d won. Nobody said anything about another round. He wanted to live quietly. He wasn''t cut out for this stuff, for killing people, for grinding day and night. Bob had a simpler and milder soul. Some might have said lazy, but that was surely a matter for perspective. He''d wanted to survive and he had. Apologies if he didn''t fancy jumping right back into the pot of boiling water. Obviously some people felt differently. Somebody had already made it to level 4. God, some people try too hard. Fancy coming back from those four challenges and immediately throwing yourself into leveling. Bob hoped he¡¯d never have to meet that particular madman. Didn¡¯t life have to be more than jumping through hoops for some unknown, all-powerful entity? Bob was in the middle of thinking up some more choice remarks on the unappreciated beauty of laziness when he realized this development was a good thing. Someone else, someone who was not Bob, could shoulder all the risk, danger and discomfort. Someone else could clear the quest for Bob, while Bob laid back here and took things easy. "Well done, brave hero, humanity applauds your devotion. We all look to you to save us in this our darkest hour, we, weak and helpless civilians, who exist only to be saved and protected, coddled and sheltered, whose true purpose lies in praising your accomplishments and complaining about insolvable problems. Fight the good fight." That ought to keep the boy motivated. Bob let his tensed-up shoulders relax down. The world quest was somebody else''s problem. Bob was nothing more than a spectator. He''d sit up somewhere in the stands, far away from the action, munch on popcorn and pretzels, and cheer on those mad fools who stepped in the ring. Now that almost sounded like fun. So what else have we got here?
System Initiation World Rank - D Pass Percentage - 18% Rewards unlocked: Rank E Rank D Rank C+ Rewards locked
Way to let a man down. Bob shook his head with the infinite sadness of one untouched by tragedy. Some people really don¡¯t pull their weight. Other folks have to do all the work. Tut, tut, tut. Bob brought an A to the table and look at what they brought in response? World average D. Who are these people getting all Es and dragging down our average? It¡¯s embarrassing. Wait a moment, that pass percentage couldn''t be right, could it? There was some mistype or confusion. Mythology had taught Bob that nobody was quite as fallible as omnipotent beings. And Bob just couldn''t believe it. It was unbelievable.
Pass Percentage - 18%
But... did that mean what Bob thought it did? Everyone who hadn''t passed was dead, right? Dead dead. Like six-feet-under-the-ground dead. 100% minus 18% was 82% (good job Bob). 82%, more than four in every five. Four in every five people were dead. People Bob knew. People Bob cared out. The idea staggered Bob. Were his parents ok? Probably not. He wasn''t close to them, but that didn''t mean he wanted them to die. His sister? His two little nephews? His friends, Nate and Joey? The old man at the corner shop? His loud and unfriendly neighbor? Who was still alive? Not all of them. Not all of them by a long-shot. 82% was a big number. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Where was his phone? He''d almost jumped to his feet before remembering he''d left it on the living room table. The living room that had magically disappeared. Before further remembering that the system had scrambled up the world''s surface; cell phone service likely hadn''t survived. Bob leaned back and tried his best to process the idea. The system initiation was the single, greatest catastrophe to ever befall humanity. More than any war, or plague, or natural disaster. This was on a nuclear armageddon scale. Humanity might just die out, no? And then Bob realized. He was thinking too small. Because it wasn¡¯t just humanity. It was all life on earth. Four-fifths of the earth''s population had just disappeared over-night. Bob''s head hurt. The numbers were too large; they boggled his mental capacities. He''d go mad trying to understand it, to feel that loss, to parse out those consequences. Finally his mind just cut it loose. It was too heavy. He couldn''t bear it. Nobody could. Bob stopped thinking about it. He stopped trying. The people he''d known. Maybe they were alive. Maybe they weren''t. Bob was alive. George was alive. And all Bob had to worry about was keeping them both alive for the foreseeable future. Small, tangible, achievable goals. Baby steps, Bob, baby steps. The world quest, the great tragedy, the mysterious system, those were problems for somebody else. Bob cycled through a couple deep breaths until he''d managed to partially restore his mood. Then he returned his attention to the remainder of the message:
Rank E Rank D
Bob grew more confused than ever. What on earth was this system thingamabob? He''d kinda guessed it was some kind of training program, a sort of interverse motivational coach/taskmaster. That world quest made it pretty clear the system wanted its citizens to level up asap. Now what part of that core objective overlapped with providing a weather service. Hell most of the high street was represented: a shop, a bank, a post office. Was this an all-powerful deity or some kind of overstuffed mobile phone application? He started looking for some kind of settings menu. And as soon as he did, a little grey icon, three horizontal lines, appeared beneath the notifications icon. "Convenient," Bob nodded approvingly. He mentally clicked the icon and a tab bar slid out on the left side of his vision. "Impressive. But how about this?" Bob sharply turned his head to the left, trying to outsmart the interface and see what lay beyond the tab (he was a QA engineer after all). But the application was too smart; the tab was pinned to his vision somehow and rotated smoothly around. Bob grudgingly accepted defeat. The interface was some manner of augmented reality. The system must be projecting the information onto his visual perception. Not only that, the application responded directly to mental commands. That meant the application, and by extension the system, was listening to his surface thoughts... Bob didn''t remember signing any user agreement that authorized that. Actually he didn''t remember signing any agreement at all. The system had unilaterally transported him to the initiation, unilaterally assigned a class to him and unilaterally installed some spy software inside his head. Yes Bob, now is the time to get into a huff and start complaining about your rights and freedoms as a citizen of the world. Bob refocused on the interface in front of him. There were eight tabs laid out in horizontal rows, text labels followed by abstract icons. The aesthetic was modern and minimalist, greyscale futuristic if you will. When Bob focused on the first tab, "Robert Brown", the lower tabs slid down and four sub-tabs, slightly offset, emerged: When Bob clicked on "Stats", the menu-bar receded and he was taken to the now familiar view:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool (unique) Level: 1 (0%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,902,200 credits Stats:
Bob willed the menu bar back and it reappeared, gracefully overlaying the "Stats" view. Bob might have been a tad impressed. It was a nice design, well executed and there had to be a ton of edge cases. He wondered who the system used for its quality assurance. Maybe there was a job market after all. Bob would have to write up a new CV. What does the system look for in its QA engineers? But Bob didn''t have time to go explore the whole interface now. There was something he desperately wanted to try and he kept getting sidelined. He''d just read through the high level groupings, so that he''d know the kind of things that were available.
His gaze stopped on the last item: "Locked". The icon was a squarish, almost geometric padlock surrounded by a grey haze. As Bob stared at it, he thought he saw the haze pulse, taking on bluish hints while the padlock itself seemed almost to tremble. As though it wanted to be opened or whatever was inside wanted to come out. Bob tried mentally tapping on the tab, but he only got a disabled feedback. What would a man have to do to unlock that tab? Bob scratched his chin. Intriguing. Bob set aside his curiosity and returned to processing his notifications. Truth be told he was in a desperate hurry, though it''d be difficult to tell from his many, many detours. Emails really are a rabbit-hole, productivity sink aren''t they? There were only three more notifications to go through and then Bob could get on to what was really important: magic. Chapter 24 - Wet Grace
Quest: Better than You - 1 (Personal) Kill 3 Rank E Initiates (0/3) Or 2 Rank D Initiates (0/2) Or 1 Rank C+ Initiate (0/1) Reward: System Sponsorship (Rank D)
Bob massaged his forehead. He''d get creases for sure if this kept up. And he was still in his early twenties. He''d turn into a shrivelled old man. The system really was bloodthirsty monster. You hear about the Aztec gods and their unsustainable addiction to warm heart-blood, but the system was on a whole other level. Bob had no plans on completing that quest. No, what worried Bob was that other quest recipients might not be so high-minded and righteous. And he had the mixed fortune of being an A rank initiate, meaning he would complete the quest for anybody in one clean shot. Bob would have to keep his eyes peeled and his guard up.
Quest: Sky''s the limit (Personal) Count to 1,001 out loudd without misisng a numper (max interval 2 seconds). Optional challenge: count backwards Reward: (hidden) Optional Reward: Jonny the Man - The Kiwi Warriors
"What? What! A copy of Jonny the Man? It still exists. Praise be to the system for it is merciful" Bob couldn''t believe his eyes. If this wasn''t divine acknowledgement that that work of fiction was a masterpiece, Bob didn''t know what was. He almost started counting backward that moment. But something got him suspicious. "Is this a real quest?" Bob squinted his eyes and examined the message box. It looked system-esque to Bob. It was the same font and format. But what about all these spelling mistakes? The system quest writer had really let himself go. Too much warm heart-blood on an empty stomach. And then the content of the quest itself was most mysterious. The system was usually pretty single-minded: kill this, level that, do better. And yet, count to 1001 backwards? Who benefited from completing that? It was just a waste of time. Was this some kind of system bug? Or maybe a personalized prank? It didn''t matter though. The stakes were too high not to play along. These were Jonny the Man stakes. As soon as Bob found some downtime, he''d start counting backwards. Worst case scenario the heavens laughed at him. Best case scenario he''d finally learn the outcome of the epic struggle between Jonny the Man and Kai Vortex. You''ve got to play to win. "Finally," Bob groaned as he opened his last message. The system was really spamming him wasn''t it? He should launch a complaint. It had taken him over twenty minutes just clear out his inbox. And he had business to attend to. The system has no respect for personal goals.
Grace Period active: Remaining time: 3:52:49
"Grace period, huh?" Did that mean people weren''t allowed to fight each other? One of those enforced ceasefires like you see at the start of some real-time strategy games. Or maybe it meant the system had some further "challenges" in store for its lucky initiates and they''d be unveiled at the end of the grace period? Of course, thanks to the system''s signature terseness, Bob had no way of judging and so no way of making a proper plan. He guessed he could try attacking George. The problem with that plan was that attack might go through. He reckoned he''d have a hard time explaining his intention to the golden retriever. And what if the system didn''t stop attacks but penalized them instead. Bob didn''t fancy getting penalized. Why had the system thought it necessary to grant its initiates a 12 hour (calculating with the world quest for reference) grace period? Was he supposed to be preparing something? Should he have fortified a base and recruited allies? He hadn''t. He''d spent most of his time sleeping and complaining. There was still almost four hours left. Plenty of time to make an effort. Or... Or he could do what he''d been wanting to do from the beginning. Good idea, Bob. Yes that sounded like a plan. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. See Bob was otherwise engaged. Bob was a busy man. Hell, Bob was excited. And who wouldn¡¯t be? The universe in its infinite wisdom (or foolishness) had chosen to grant him, Bob Brown, a magical power. Bob was practically a wizard at this point wasn¡¯t he? Bob was a wizard. A master of arcane forces. A disciple of the mystic path. Yes, yes, of course, it was a tragedy that his new magical prowess was limited to manipulation of the least appealing of the elements. But magic was magic. And Bob was dying to test out his new skills and find out just how badass he was. He rose up on his newly responsive leg and crept out onto the plains, careful to let George continue his sleep. Bob loved George, but George was one needy companion and Bob had work to do. He found himself a nice patch of muddy grass. It wasn¡¯t hard. Last night¡¯s rainstorm had transmuted large swathes of green prairie into muddy wastes. A fact which suited Bob just fine. For mud, despite their long and complicated history, was Bob¡¯s element. Now for the moment of truth. Bob planted his feet and focused hard on the mud in front of him. He described the activity to himself as ¡°reaching out with his mind.¡± An outside (and more objective) observer might have chosen the words: ¡°Bob screwed up his face and stared angrily at the ground.¡± But then who can say what''s true? It was coming. Something was coming. Power was welling up inside him. He was the master. All bow down before the mud magician. Hm¡­ Bob tilted his head and took on a confused expression. He crossed his arms and examined the mud patch in front of him. Why he¡¯d be damned if the mud had moved an inch. Furthermore, now that the dramatic currents of the moment had spilled out of him, he decided he hadn¡¯t feel anything at all. No power, magic or mystic insight, just excitement and nervous energy. It was all rather dissatisfying. In his frustration, he leveled a wild kick at a mud clot on the ground. It sailed neatly up and away. See, he¡¯d made it fly hadn¡¯t he? No, no, no. Bob scratched his head and put on his thinking cap. This was how they do it in the novels isn¡¯t it? Shouldn¡¯t that have worked? You get a new skill and suddenly you know exactly how to use it. Maybe he was forgetting something. He turned to his wealth of anime knowledge (basically a database of real world experience). Aha, he had forgotten something: hand gestures, hand gestures and an attack phrase. Yes that must be it. Good thought, Bob, good thought. He readied himself again, hands outstretched, brow wrinkled in concentration, lips twisted into an intense frown. He reached out to the mud. The dark, angry depths below the plain. He stirred up its bubbling rage, its black, sweeping ambitions. ¡°Mud explosion!¡± He shouted, bringing his arms up and forward in a spasmodic gesture of eruption. The mud, curse its name, stayed just where it was, in all its lazy, wet grace. Now Bob couldn¡¯t resist a sliver of worry creeping into his mind. A long stretch of verbally expressing his frustration to the unresponsive mud patch helped a little, but the nagging suspicion came back afterwards with full and renewed force. This ability of his was going to be a chore. It was going to be work. Mud manipulation was going to be one of those things where you have to spend hours and hours of training before you saw any tangible benefits at all. "Oh my God, this is going to be like learning French all over again isn¡¯t it?" The horrible memories of that childhood trauma snaked up through Bob¡¯s mind. His poor tongue¡¯s inability to express the needlessly complicated soundscape of the language and the teacher¡¯s ruthlessness in failing to credit his very legitimate disability. He remembered an oral examination like the trials of hell, as he waded through unknown and unfamiliar words, while the instructor endlessly repeated the same meaningless noises, jeering and taunting him. All told he¡¯d spend years on the damn thing and could barely string together three sentences in a broken, unrecognizable accent. Bob sat down on his patch of mud. He sighed deeply to himself. "It¡¯d be nice. Wouldn¡¯t it be nice, if some things in life were just easy? Don¡¯t you think? Couldn¡¯t we all get behind that?" Still, Bob, demonstrating a greatness of spirit rare to this world, pulled himself together. Bob was a wizard. And truth be told, Bob¡¯s interest in the French language had been lacking at best, but this... for the sake of gaining mud magic, what sacrifices would Bob not pay? He was invested heart and soul. That had to count for something. He¡¯d show that French teacher yet. Bob was going to market. First things first. He¡¯d been ambitious. It was the folly of the youth. Only a great wizard could pull off mud explosion. He needed to start small. Feel the mud, Bob, feel the mud. That was the foundation of all mud-craft. He scooped out a handful of mud, closed his eyes and tried to focus on it. Bob felt the soft weight of it, the earthy smell, the coolness, he heard the squelching sound it made as he moved his fingers, sensed its resistance to his motion. He sat there for a minute, then two, then five. This was his element, he told himself again and again, his servant, his destiny. Bob felt strangely focused. In his past life, he¡¯d struggled to sit unoccupied for three minutes all together, but the mud (he was horrified to discover) interested him in some fundamental way. There was water inside it and grains of dirt held in suspension. It occupied a complex and intermediate state. His own body warmth flowed slowly into the mud, making it softer and more pliant. The mud was always changing, always in flux. A full fifteen minutes came and went. Bob sat there like a Buddhist monk in complementation of some zen riddle, the mud pillared in his left hand like some precious statute. That was the moment Bob imagined he¡¯d felt something, something distinct from his five mundane senses. Imagined being the operative word because the sensation was so faint, so weak compared to his traditional senses, that he could hardly make it out, let out maintain focus on it. But it was there (probably). It was something (probably). Bob was a wizard (probably). Chapter 25 - Bad Fiction Bob was a wizard. His otherworldly power consisted in being just about able to sense a ball of mud in his right hand with his eyes closed. The stuff legends are made of. But even Gandalf must have started off somewhere. Bob enjoyed imagining the wizard struggling to conjure sparks from his staff, growing winded and red in the face, before finally throwing his hat on the ground and stamping on the thing. Besides Bob was motivated by higher purposes than merely saving the world or defeating some age-old evil lord; Bob was motivated by an overwhelming desire to be badass. A true force of nature. Bob had felt something. He was high-confidence. Definitely. Maybe. He was a wizard¡¯s apprentice no mistake, hopefully. Why are feelings so vague and amorphous? Of course, the sensation must have been blunted by the noise and blare of his traditional senses. Too many bright lights drown out the faint trickle of star light. As much as possible, he needed to isolate his mud-perception. So he returned the mud ball to its mud patch. Holding a thing in one¡¯s hand was to be bombarded by an endless stream of information: tactile sensational, heat exchange, weight perception, on and on. Next he covered his ears, blocking out even the gentle sounds of the morning plain. The smell, thankfully, he¡¯d long since grown used to and no longer consciously perceived. Finally, he shut his eyes. The world was dark, quiet, without sensation. He noticed his breathing, cool air flowing in and warmer air rolling out. He noticed half-a-dozen little tensions. His shoulders were tight, his neck rolled forward, his forehead wrinkled. He let everything slip away, one slow breath at a time. He was calm. He was floating in emptiness. He stretched out for the mud on the ground in front of him. He felt something. Probably. Maybe. It was just the feeling didn¡¯t seem to come from in front of him (where the mud was). Instead Bob thought he felt something all around him, something dancing and playful. Was he just imagining things? Bob opened his eyes and let the world seep back in. He started looking for the source of that sensation. But there was nothing about him, the green plains, the muddy grass, the rise of distant hills, a breeze meandering through and catching in the lines of his cloak. Nothing. He was just imagining things. Not good Bob. Had he been sure he sensed something earlier? Confident certainly. Convinced well not quite. "Bob, I hate to tell you this. But I''m afraid you might just have been imagining things." "I''m not a wizard?" "No Harry, I''m most sorry, but there''s been some kind of mistake. You''ll have to go back to the Dursleys and live like an ordinary boy, alright? Cheerio." Bob sighed and let his chin sink down against his elbow. He navigated to the "Skills" subtab and pulled up the description of mud manipulation:
Skill: Mud Manipulation (Authority) Feel the Mud, Young Puddler. Effect: Grants unbounded authority over all forms of mud
That was not particular helpful. System humor got old fast. He read through the message again. He supposedly had unbounded authority over all forms of mud. Bob tapped his chin as he tried to puzzle his way through the problem. He had authority over the mud. So why was the mud ball being so incorporative? He had the authority. It should obey his word like the word of god. Maybe he needed to give clearer instructions. Yeah that must be it. He fixed the little mud ball with a searing stare and commanded out loud: "Rise mud ball." Naturally, the mud stayed exactly where it was. That wasn''t terribly shocking. But it was a little disappointing. Bob tilted his head, glaring at the offending mud ball. Calm down Bob. There must be a simple explanation. Maybe his wording was too general. Try something more specific. Bob spent a couple seconds coming up with something appropriately targeted and then ordered in his most regal tones: "You, mud ball, two feet in front of me by the grass clump, rise slowly six inches off the ground and hover there." You couldn''t be clearer than that. And yet, and yet, to the misfortune of all glorious rulers, Bob''s muddy subjects refused to obey. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. What was he missing? Bob didn''t doubt for a moment the system''s ability to grant magical powers to its candidates. He only had to look around at what had happened to his local, downtown neighborhood, now a sweeping grassland, to confirm that the system had mind-boggling powers. No, he definitely was a magician. Somehow he was approaching the problem the wrong. How could he communicate his will to the mud? Verbal commands did not seem to be effective. He guessed the mud ball hadn''t learned English in school. Maybe he needed something more abstract and universal. The only thing Bob could think of was a mental image. He constructed in his mind a deliciously vivid image of said mud ball floating in the air. That was the desired outcome. He did his best to make the image as detailed and concrete as possible. Then he tried to beam the image at the mud ball. Bob didn''t have much experience beaming images. And there was no feedback mechanism. He had no idea if the image was being transmitted. The results were painfully obvious: there wasn''t a peep out of Mr Mud-ball. Bob cycled through a couple different beaming strategies. These mainly consisted in alternated head position and angle. How many ways were there to think something at an object? Had he been unlucky in his choice of mud ball? Was this mud ball some anti-authoritarian lout that willfully ignored the commands of his mud majesty? Maybe authority didn''t mean power as such. A subject could certainly disobey the word of his king. A subject could even betray and murder his king. The mud ball might not recognize him as its master? Well Bob knew how to solve that. Bob picked up the mud ball and threw it in the distance. Sayonara sucker. He collected up another handful of mud and sculpted it lovingly into a spherical shape. This new mud sphere, Mrs Mud-sphere if you will, he set up it in the same spot and patted on the head, whispering "your mud king cares for you very much." Ok this mud sphere surely adored Bob and would listen to his instructions. From the top now. Bob wanted to be exhaustive in his tests so he started off with verbal commands: "Please, dearest mud sphere, sculpted by my own hands, standing nobly a foot in front of my person, gradually lift yourself up into the air, to a height of six inches and remain there floating." Alas courtesy is just as ineffective as tyranny. Nobody wants to do what they''re told. Next came Bob''s beaming attempts. But no matter how many times he blasted the mud sphere with a picture of his desired end state, nothing happened. Bob was grinding his teeth together at this point. Magic was supposed to be fun, wasn''t it? It didn''t feel fun. It felt frustrating. Bob you''re only a fledging mud magician at this point. The mud''s too far away. Very well. Bob lay down on the ground and touched his forehead against the mud sphere. Perfect. No more informational leakage when image beaming. He concentrated, squeezing his forehead and trying to push the image of a floating mud ball out of his skull. The mud ball trembled. "Yes!" Oh... he''d just accidentally knocked into it with his head. Bob jumped up and started cursing and spitting. "Damn system, with its stupid magic and unexplained rules." Bob had never read a single novel where the hero was utterly unable to use any his powers. It was absurd, just flat-out ridiculous. What was he supposed to do? "This''ll make for bad fiction," Bob shook his fist at the sky, "bad fiction I say." Bob paced back and forth, practicing his French. Calm down Bob, calm down. This must just be the nature of system skills. They don''t work like video game magic. Point and click and boom! Ah yes the point-click-boom mechanism. System magic required more up-front investment. You had to train, practice, develop your senses. Bob would have just to stick at it and fight his way up the sharper side of the learning curve. No matter how much it felt like a Sisyphean slope. That was both bad and good. Because if Bob couldn''t use his magic, then odds on no one else could either. And yes it sucked to have a magical skill and not be able to use it in the slightest, but Bob''s skill was mud manipulation and other sentients might have got significantly more lethal abilities. He might not have gotten the worse end of the stick. This line of reasoning made Bob feel a little better. He was powerless. But so was everyone else. Consequence: he should be relatively safe for the near future. It would take enemy mages a long while before they could blast out fire-balls or chain electric-bolts. Bob had nothing to worry about. That was the moment Bob was suddenly knocked to the ground. A warm, wet, furry creature was in the midst of eating him alive. ¡°Good morning George.¡± Bob''s loud cursing must have roused the dog from his slumber. Bob pulled himself back up and returned the dog¡¯s excited greeting. ¡°You¡¯re a late riser today, huh? Guess I can¡¯t blame you after the whole initiation shitshow. I think I¡¯d have died on my feet if I didn¡¯t get a little nap halfway through.¡± George wasn¡¯t listening though. Bob¡¯s mud ball had attracted the dog¡¯s attention. George approached nose first, sniffed, frowned, staggered back with an offended and unhappy air (it wasn¡¯t that bad was it?), steadied himself, took in a great breath of air and... spat out a column of red fire. Bob jumped back, wide-eyed and spluttering. Mrs Mud-sphere? George cheerfully patted down the black smear, all that was left of Bob¡¯s erstwhile subject, before sidling up to Bob to show off his black paw. Bob examined the black smear that had once been the delightful Mrs Mud-sphere. She didn''t look herself somehow. Had she been ill? Bob gave the dog some mumbling praise and grudgingly stroked his head (best not to get on the bad side of a fire-breathing golden retriever), all the while quietly muttering the words: un-fucking-believable again and again in sort of half-prayer-half-curse. Nothing ever works out as we expect. Chapter 26 - Setup Bob was crumbled up into a ball, his head between his knees, as George circled his master, nosing around and flapping his tail at Bob''s face. It wasn''t fair. Bob was feeling set up. Mighty set up. Surely, surely, it couldn¡¯t be a coincidence. He¡¯d begged the heavens for fireball. He had prayed for fireball more sincerely than he ever had for the abstract ideals of world peace or mutual understanding. But no, Bob was granted the "power" of mud manipulation, while his dog (his dog!) was gifted the sought-after fireball. And if the injustice ended there, Bob might have made his peace and done his best to be happy for his canine friend. But oh no, there was plenty more injustice to go around. Bob had spent the greater part of an hour desperately trying to cast the simplest of mud spells, all to no avail. And George, the dog, had traipsed up, zero practice, zero, and nonchalantly spat out the equivalent of a flamethrower. He was being set up. There were no two ways about. Someone in high places was having a good laugh just about now. And if George could use his spells, then chances were everyone else could too. No, Bob alone, poor Boor, couldn''t use his ability. Bob alone, poor Bob, would be helpless against a small child or a white rabbit with their unlocked abilities. Long story short: Bob was going to die. George''s warm breath panted into Bob''s ear; the dog had shoved his snout through Bob''s defensive position and was tapping his wet nose against different parts of Bob''s face. The maneuver was extremely ticklish and Bob quickly uncurled himself. He gave the dog an annoyed look, but George''s shrugged off any unpleasant intent with an amicable bark. Bob caved and wrapped his arms around the dog. "Thank you George. I probably needed that." Yes Bob was going to die unless... George protected him. George with his fireball ability. Bob remembered imagining how he would nobly protecting his dog from the harsh new post-system world. Funny how these things work out. For the present, however, Bob was the weak and impotent princess who required a big, strong golden magician to keep him safe and warm. "Fireball huh?" Bob said with undisguised envy. Was it fireball or fire breath? Bob stood and examined the triangular patch of burnt grass. That was when Bob finally processed the full destructive power of George¡¯s attack. Bob stepped over to still smoking area and bent down, fishing out a pebble from the scorched earth. "Ouch." It was hot. He probably should have expected that. He wrapped his hand in a fold of his cloak and tried again. The stone looked, he couldn¡¯t find another word for it, half-melted. Its natural lines were warped. What temperature did a flame need to reach before it could affect stone? Bob gawked at the fluffy golden animal brushing against his legs. So much for a long training montage with gradual snail-pace improvement, George obviously had no need for that. Honestly, what the hell. George''s ability could bring down an elephant. Maybe even a tank. Bob threw the pebble towards the heavens above. It was a symbolic gesture. And one that George immediately misinterpreted, assuming some stick had been thrown for his benefit. The dog bounced off in the direction of the throw. Bob just sighed. The burned area continued to give off a slight haze even after a few minutes. If it hadn¡¯t just rained, Bob reckoned George¡¯s playful act would have burned down the whole prairie-land. They''d have to be careful about using the dog''s ability in the wrong place or at the wrong time. Bob''s mud ability, on the other hand, could be safely practiced in all environments and climates. Maybe mud manipulation was one of those high upfront cost, high future payout skills. An optimistic and unconvincing voice protested. Fire breath¡ªthat, he gestured at the devastated landscape, has got to be near peak output. Long game is all that really matters. Well, unless you get yourself killed, like 80+% of earth¡¯s sentients already had. Come on. Bob had a unique class. Surely he should had correspondingly unique and powerful abilities. A nice argument, but breaking down immediately given that his class description explicitly told him it would assign random abilities. Randomness in general did not tend to pick the rarest and best of outcomes as every lottery player can attest. George returned, wagging his tail, with a stick in his mouth. What? Bob hadn¡¯t thrown a stick. The dog must have just found one lying around. It was quite a nice stick too. Light brown with a good weight to it, smooth and just the perfect length for throwing. Bob smiled at that dog. ¡°I can¡¯t stay angry at you, George.¡± The dog barked, dropping the stick. Bob half-suspected the dog just barked whenever you said his name, but Bob chose to make the more charitable interpretation. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°So your ability is fire breath, huh? And this red satchel must be your companion object.¡± Bob unfashioned the toggles and opened the bag. It was completely empty. ¡°Do you know what it does, George?¡± An unhelpfully cryptic bark was the only response. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s just a fashion accessory is it? I mean it looks well made and all.¡± The strapping system was particularly cunning, looping around the dog¡¯s lower back in a way that didn¡¯t seem to impede his movements in the slightest. ¡°Well don¡¯t sweat it, boy. It looks great on you.¡± It wasn''t like Bob''s cloak did anything special either. Bob couldn''t stay angry at George. The dog exuded love, friendliness and cheer. But Bob was still angry at himself, at the system and at the setup. Angry and a little afraid. He was in a magical world of blood and death, but he had no powers. He couldn''t defend himself. He didn''t want to think what would happen if they ran into something dangerous. That thought got him restless and somehow wary of staying in one place. "George, fancy a walk?" The dog barked. "I''ll take that for a yes." No surprise there, Bob had never seen the dog turn down a walk before. Bob set off at a quick trot, heading downwards; their bathroom was situated on the shoulder of a hill about two-thirds of the way to the top. Bob marched downhill, George taking a freer and more creative route. There was plenty to interest a dog in the wide grasslands. Motion eased the hunted feeling in Bob''s stomach. He''d always enjoyed long walks. Something about nature and just moving the body. It brought him out of his head and let him get a bit more perspective. He ran a hand through the tall grasses, watching the stems bend under his fingers and then spring back. The landscape was eerily empty. There was no buzz of little insects or the distinctive rustle of a rabbit or a fox squeezing through the grasses. There were no birds in the sky. They were terribly alone. Bob walked and walked and thought about everything that had happened to him. He hadn''t really had time to process it all. He''d been jumping from one task to the next. He breathed out and let his mind wander. The old world was over wasn''t it? He''d never wake up, groggy eyed, roll out of his bed and cycle into the office of the Slackback Turtle. He''d never sit staring at a blue screen, pressing a little transparent ruler into the monitor as he measured out the dimensions of turtle icons. He''d never get a chance to talk on the phone with his friend Nate again. Nate who''d been training to be a doctor. A good man and a better friend. In the before anyway. Who knew what had happened to him now? All Bob had known. His routines and small hopes, his vacation plans, his bank account, his whole world was lost beyond recovery. He thought about the initiation challenges. And surprisingly, he found a quiet pride in what he''d accomplished. Bob certainly hadn''t dominated them. If anything, he''d underestimated each and every one. His final grade of A was the definition of a fluke. And sure some of his decisions might have been a tad embarrassing, upon further reflection. He couldn''t grasp what he''d been thinking when he resubmitted the same answer on the combination puzzle. But on the whole, he thought he''d done his best. He hadn''t been crippled by fear, or frozen by the sudden ordeal. He''d overcome. 82% of sentient life on earth couldn''t say the same. And yes, if possible, the stakes had been raised since returning to earth. A bomb was ticking down over all their heads. World Recycling had to mean death for the lowly creatures who crawled along the world''s surface. Not to mention, he was utterly powerless, mud manipulation notwithstanding, and surrounded by powerful potential enemies. Strange then, Bob grinned, somehow his spirits were high and he was even a little hopeful. George probably had a lot to do with that. Bob really loved that dog. He was a right sucker for the animal. "George," Bob called out, wanting to express a little bit of that warm feeling the dog invoked inside him. Bob looked left and then right and then behind him. "Where has that dratted dog run off to now?" Bob picked up his pace and started scanning the horizons. The tall grasses really obscured visibility. Bob was started to get a little worried. Would George know his way back to the bathroom? What if something had happened to him? Why had Bob taken his eyes off his friend? "George, George." He cupped his hand and shouted the dog''s name. An answering bark from Bob''s left got him to turn around. He turned around and made out three figures stationed about forty paces away. Of course, George was standing in their midst. And the company was staring in Bob''s direction. He should have ditched that confounded dog and gone on his own way. Or not, either way, no backing out now. George was too friendly for his own good (read for Bob''s own good). Bob stuck a worried half-smile on his face and slowly plodded towards the group. "What are you so worried about? Maybe they''re good friendly people. You could use some allies. Not to mention someone to talk to." "Yeah, sure, because that has been the pattern over the last few days: good, friendly people. Maybe they are mad, serial-killers and you are walking to your death." "Guess we''ll find out." Chapter 27 - Good People "Howdy," Bob called out to the assembled figures in as friendly a voice as he could manage. Three men were gathered around George. One of them was crouching down and petting the dog. That was surely a good sign. Good people are kind to dogs, aren''t they? George was enjoying the attention a little too much for Bob''s taste. Fraternizing with the enemy and all. Bob had closed in enough to get a better look at the strangers and a better look was not comforting. Those artistic red, black splashes across their clothes looked awfully like dried blood. Yes, that was dried blood no mistake. Good people can have blood on their clothes, can''t they? "Sorry about the dog. He''s a friendly, little guy. We''ll get out of your hair," Bob wheedled, half-bowing and cringing his face up into something appropriately apologetic. At the same time, Bob summoned the dog with a sharp, commanding hiss. George looked up, titled his head in question and then walked over to Bob. The man who''d be petting George rose to his feet. He was a lanky man with awkward gestures and soft white hands. Was that an electric screwdriver in his belt? "Is that your dog?" "Yes... sir. This is George. And I''m Bob. Bob Brown. Good to meet you all." Humanize yourself Bob. It''s harder to kill a man whose name you know. "I''m Rad." Said the lanky man. "You mean Brad?" Bob suggested helpfully. "No call me Rad." "Rad. I haven''t heard that name before. If you don''t mind me asking, is that short for something?" "Yeah, Brad" "So you''re Brad?" "No, call me Rad." Rad repeated a less patiently than the first time. "Sorry, sorry, Rad, yes, Rad; cool name that." He gestured to the other two men, "And if you don''t mind me asking, who might you fine fellows be?" "I"m Chad," the well-built, shorter man on the left spoke up. Perfect time for a joke Bob. Go ahead and lighten the mood. Nobody kills a funny man. Give them your best material. Bob turned to the third man, a more portly fellow this one, with a red face and a bandolier of darts strapped over his shoulder. "Rad and Chad, so I guess that makes you Lad." Bob smiled ingratiatingly and waited for the laughter. "Yeah that''s right. Have we met before." Bob backpedalled. "No, sorry," what were the chances, "just a wild guess on my part." "You making fun of my name?" "No, Lad is a great name. Everybody wanted to be a lad at my school. I envy you." "Chad, he''s making fun of my name." "Far from it. Couldn''t be further from my mind. Lad is that short for something? Never mind. Forget I asked. Mighty glad to meet you all. Lad, Chad and Rad, that''s right? What brings you out to these parts?" All three men looked at Bob strangely. That had been a stupid question. Conversation was difficult. Thankfully Rad deigned to summarize. He explained that they''d been enjoying a night on the town and had just been stopping over at a mate''s pub when the initiation hit. On their return, the pub crowd had significantly thinned. That was when... Rad stopped here and gave his companions a significant look. Chad sheepishly averted his gaze, but Lad cut in: "Why mess around telling the whole story. We''re just going to kill him ain''t we?" Bob swallowed. Good people joke about killing their friends, don''t they, don''t they? Bob grabbed George by the neck. He didn''t want to get separated. "Lad, why you gone and said that." Chad interrupted, grabbing Lad''s shoulder. "You''ve gone and spooked him." "What''s it matter. There are three of us. And he sure looks weak." "Boys," Rad quieted his friends and continued his story, "There were maybe fifteen survivors. One of them had a pistol. He just started shooting. We only did what we had to. Lad''s here a mean hand at darts." "You should''ve seen him. Whipping out dart after dart," Chad dummied a two-handed dart-killing-machine. Lad smiled self-indulgently, nodded his acknowledgement to Chad. He looked at Bob, flashed his teeth and then in one smooth motion, flicked a dart out of the bandolier and made as if to throw at Bob. Bob flinched back, which set Lad and Chad guffawing, shaking their heads and clutching their stomaches. Rad glared angrily at the two of them. "Did anyone else survive?" Bob asked, eyes on the ground. "Nobody," Lad answered, "we even lost Mad." "Poor Mad," Chad chimed in. "It was Mad''s pub. Never make it back from the initiation," Rad explained, "Chad too probably would''ve died if I hadn''t gotten there in time. Nasty knife wound." Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Chad lifted up his shirt to show the scar. "Bastard twisted the knife." "I was a doctor. I''ve got a minor heal ability." "I see." Eyes still on the ground. So much for the grace period preventing player vs player combat. These guys had killed people. Bob was probably next. "That''s all sounds mighty hard. I''m sorry about your friends. George here and I were the only ones in our group. I thought we''d had it bad, but you guys sure pulled the short end of the stick." "You can say that again." "Our base, well our starting room is a couple hundred meters off in that direction," Bob pointed in a random direction. "Do let us know if we can help with anything. It was good meeting you all. Always nice meeting good people." Bob moved to leave in the direction he''d pointed (plausibility and all). Unfortunately, Lad stepped over and blocked their way forward. "Chad, he said he wants to help us." "Very considerate of him Lad; I reckon I can think of a way you might be helpful." "Chad, he''s a beginner; explain it to him." "You''re too kind Lad. See here, Bob. Killing sentients gives experience. Very good experience. I''m already level two." He puffed up his chest. "And Lad here''s level three. The good things don''t end there either. There''s a plunder bonus. The system gifts us a portion of your money for our hard work." Bob stepped back instinctively. These were bad odds. George could probably get one of them. Maybe even two. They were definitely underestimating the dog. If Bob could use his mud manipulation, or had some other power, or anything. If Bob wasn''t so damn useless, they might have had a chance... "Come on, Rad. You''re good people. We''re all in the same boat here. The enemy''s the system." Rad looked down at George; the dog was blissfully unaware of his situation and was wagging his tail excitedly back and forth. "Rad, don''t tell me, you''re letting them go." Rad bit his lip but didn''t answer. "You killed people too, Rad. I saw you use that screwdriver." "Yeah Rad, what are we waiting for?" "Boys, the pub was one thing, but this, this would be straight up..." "Murder? Rad you''re too soft. We all went through the challenges didn''t we? Killing''s normal here. He probably killed people too." "Lad''s right. Rad, you saw the quest. Someone''s got to level up or we''re all goners." Could Bob make a run for it? He might be able to squeeze past Lad and start sprinting. Yes and then he''d go down to a dart in the back. They''d be on him in moments. Screwdriver to the brain. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, come on there''s no need for that talk. We''re all good people here. I''m sure we can work something out." Rad jumped on the chance. "What did you have in mind?" Bob had nothing in mind. He quickly stalled for time. "Well... I mean; you know, context, context! Couldn''t give me a little more context? What''s this plunder bonus? What happens if you kill a person." "10%" Chad said. "20%" Lad interrupted, earning funny looks from his two companions. "You get 20% of the player''s wealth." "Ah I see," Bob sensing his chance, "well good sirs, that means you lose 80% of your... target''s wealth. 80%. Good money down the drain that." "Oh, you''ll buy your life will you?" "I can see when an article''s worth its price. Yes I propose a transaction. I will give you 100% of my wealth. Can''t say fairer than that." "He probably only has a measly one hundred or two hundred credits. Maybe less." Chad scoffed, "I''d rather get to level 3." Bob thought he saw Lad nodding. "Hold your horses. Plenty of time to kill me after negotiations break down. Because you fine folks are luck. In that fourth challenge, I got down to one measly chip and couldn''t bear standing multiple life-and-death deals, so I staked it all on lucky number seven. And here I am to tell the tale." "Is that so?" Rad quickly calculated, "Boys what''d you say? He''s got 2600 credits. That''s more than all of us combined." "He''s obviously lying." "But level 3, Rad." "Kill him and we lose over two thousand credits. Two thousand credits, Boys." "Why don''t we just kill him after he hands over the credits?" "Chad, you idiot. He''s standing right there." "Sorry Bob. Forget you heard that or I''ll kill you." Now in a very audible whisper, "It''s the obvious plan though right? Money and experience." Bob had not been idle. He''d had the same thought as Chad. You just can''t trust good people anymore. But Bob remembered seeing something relevant in his interface and quickly got to work. "Yeah, but Chad, what idiot''s going to fork over his money if he thinks we''ll just kill him anyway." "What choice does he have? We''re threatening to kill him." "Chad, dammit. Rad you explain to him." "Chad..." The eyes of the three men all glazed over at the same time:
System Contract Proposal - Non-Aggression Pact: Contract Details:
  1. Parties:
    • Party A (Offeror): Bob, George
    • Party B (Acceptor): Chad, Lad, Rad
  2. Terms of Agreement:
    • Party A agrees to transfer 2600 credits to Party B.
    • In return, Party B agrees to indefinitely refrain from engaging in hostile actions or any form of aggression against Party A.
Contract violation will be judged and punished by the system. Do you accept these terms? Yes/No
Bob grinned weakly at the three men, currently debating how best to both kill him and steal all his money. Good people, eh? "What''d you say, guys? Nothing like a system-enforced, written agreement to build trust between parties." "But Lad, if we sign this, we won''t be able to kill him after we get the money." "Yeah Chad, that''s the whole point." "Then why in hell would we sign?" Rad cut in: "Lad, he wasn''t lying about the money. He''d be bound by the contract just like us. I think we should take it." The three of them put their heads together and deliberated. Rad sounded like Bob''s biggest advocate, while Chad vehemently opposed any plan that didn''t involve him leveling up. Lad was the most mercenary of the group and just wanted to extract the most out of the situation. Bob thought about running. He really wanted to do something. He couldn''t stand still. He kept catching snippets of their hushed conversation. How far could they make it before the trio reacted? A hundred meters, not even close, fifty, twenty, ten, five? He remembered that smooth, practiced draw of the dart. Lad really did look like one of those guys who threw bullseye after bullseye while pissed out of his mind. A big, open target on a big, open plain... But maybe George would escape. Who was he kidding? George in the wilderness all alone? Bob also thought about setting George loose on the lot of them as they huddled together. Why was he so powerless? One well-timed fire breath into their midst. It might work. It probably would. But that really would be nothing short of cold-hearted murder. Bob might have done it for George. But he didn''t want to make George do it for him. At least not while there was any hope left. The voices stopped. It looked like they''d come to some kind of decision. They''d surely come around. Greed was the ultimate motivator. People only need the right incentives. People are all good at heart, aren''t they? Good people, good people; Rad stepped up as their spokesman: "Our answer is no." Chapter 28 - George knows best "Our answer is no."
Non-Aggression Pact Rejected
Bob looked at George, looked at the three-man group, swore quietly to himself. Why''d it have to come to this? He gulped; he couldn''t believe he was going to do this. Bob couched down beside George, holding the dog''s jaw in place so the dog didn''t look around at him. Rad was standing directly in George''s line of fire with Chad and Lad flanking to left and right. Bob bit his lip¡ªwhat choice did he have? Bob whispered into the dog''s ear: "fire!" George peered over at Bob from the corner of his eye. The dog looked puzzled. He pawed a little at the ground, trying to get Bob to let go. Bob did not let go. He held the dog''s jaw pointed straight at Rad. It was now or never: "Fire, George, quick, fire." George whined and tried to step back. Stupid dog. Stupid, bloody dog. You''ll be the death of us all. Bob stood back up and tried a wobbly smile. He eyed the three men in front of him. "I''m sure we can work something out. Don''t be hasty now." "This is what we''ve decided." "Don''t kill me. Please. Please. I''m begging you."
System Contract Proposal - Non-Aggression Pact (Revised): Contract Details:
  1. Parties:
    • Party A (Offeror): Bob, George
    • Party B (Acceptor): Chad, Lad, Rad
  2. Terms of Agreement:
    • Party A agrees to transfer 2600 credits to Party B.
    • In return, both parties agree to refrain from engaging in hostile actions or any form of aggression against each other for 24 hours (starting on contract signing).
Contract violation will be judged and punished by the system. Do you accept these terms? Yes/No
"What?" Rad had winced back at Bob''s high-pitched scream. "Didn''t you get the message?" Rad poked at the empty air in front of him, "You''re not getting it?" "Ahem," Bob cleared his throat. "Ah yes. Here it is. Bit of a delay it looks like. I see, you desire to revise the contract. Very well. I am open to deliberations." "Yes," Rad continued uncertainly, "where was I? That''s right. We''ve made two changes. One, the non-aggression pact is mutual. The old one was rather vague. It almost sounded like you could''ve attacked us and we couldn''t have defended ourselves." "A terrible oversight on my part. Deepest apologies." Was Rad a lawyer or something? Ordinary people weren''t supposed to read the fine print. So much for Bob''s little trap. Of course he''d never planned to use it, not really, but it was nice to have an advantage: "I agree 100% of course." "Two, we''ve set a time limit. 24 hours." "24 hours..." Bob echoed, his mind whirling at the implications: "That''s a tad short, don''t you think? I''m giving you all my life savings here." "I''m sorry." "I don''t want to make... I''m not accusing you of anything, mind. But it''s almost as though you plan to attack me as soon as the 24 hours are up. I''m reading too much into things, aren''t I? I can be a tad paranoid." "This was the only way I could get Chad to agree." Now if that wasn''t a "yes, Chad plans to attack you in 24 hours," Bob didn''t know what was. Guess the man was really wedded to the idea of eating his cake and having it too. "Can we negotiate on the time period? What about a week? Three days?" "No; Chad doesn''t want to wait. I''m sorry. You need all of us to sign. Chad can block the deal by himself. I already tried convincing him. 24 hours is the compromise." "Is that right..." Bob deliberated for a moment, but he''d didn''t really have a choice anyway. "Well thank you kindly Rad. You''re good people." Bob reluctantly pressed yes. 24 hours of life was better than dying today.
Non-Aggression Pact (Revised) - Agreed
Bob''s checked his system bank account''s balance and saw that 2600 credits had been automatically withdrawn. A new addition in the private contract tab let him see the details of the agreement and track how much time was left. The three men, on their side, were patting each other on the back and otherwise congratulating themselves. Looks like they''d got their payout just fine. "Good doing business with you all." Bob nodded at the group and started to drag George off in the direction he''d pointed out. He glanced back, when he heard Chad advocating they follow him, but Lad just tapped his nose and smiled. "Oh..." Chad nodded and grinned in turn. That was not encouraging. Bob marched George forward until they''d lost sight of the three men and then arched around towards their base. Their room abetted the largest hill in the area so it was an easy enough job to find their way back. Bob let George wander freely, while he brooded over the exchange. He told himself he''d done well. 2600 credits was nothing to Bob. And nine times out of ten that encounter would have ended with Bob in the ground dead. He''d managed to escape a life-threatening situation for a token fee. It was a victory. A great victory. That''s what he told himself. But he felt wretched all the same. Truth was he''d been powerless. He was so weak. He was just surviving, dragging on from one moment to the next. It was one thing to feel weak in front of the system, it still hurt, but the system was some incomprehensibly powerful being; it was quite another to feel weak in front of three men in their twenties named Rad, Chad and Lad. Bob had been entirely in their power, to kill or free as they willed. And he hated the fact. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Bob tried his best to swallow down the humiliation. He asked himself honestly: what else could he have done? He tried to focus on the mud in the ground. He tried to pull on it with his mind, commanding it to float up, to do something, to answer his call. The mud was silent. The gods are always silent. Nothing, he could have done nothing. There was the plain, cold truth. Bob was worthless. He couldn''t protect himself. He couldn''t protect George. The initiation had been one fluke after enough. George barked suddenly. Bob was snapped out of his thoughts, instantly tense. What had happened? Where was the enemy? The dog was jumping along beside Bob with a stick in his mouth. "You just wanted to play fetch?" Bob ruffled George''s fur. "You scared the living daylights out of me." All the same, Bob took up the proffered stick (looking for the end with less saliva on it) and tossed it into the distance. George ran happily after and Bob found himself watching. George tracked down the stick, snapped it up and bounded back to where Bob stood. "Good boy, good boy, George." The dog''s ears perked up and he looked at Bob with bright, happy eyes. "You did good George." Bob reached out for the stick. "Drop it boy." George clamped down on the stick. "Drop it George, drop it." Bob pulled and George resisted. Bob sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine have it your way. It''s your stick George." Bob started walking away and George immediately dropped the stick to follow. He walked beside Bob, but kept glancing back at the stick and then up to Bob, whining in a low, pleading tone. "Dammit George." Bob kept walking a little bit, just to annoy the dog, but finally he took pity. Bob went all the back to the stick, picked it up again and lobbed it forward. George was after it like an arrow. Bob couldn''t believe he''d almost had the dog kill three defenseless people. That there was a good dog. George had known better than Bob. George knew best. Bob tossed the stick forward again and George ran after it. It had been life and death, sure, but Bob didn''t want to turn George into some weapon. George deserved more than that. He deserved to be happy and free, to be able to throw himself whole-heartily into pointlessly chasing down a stick. They''d almost made it back to their home bathroom. They''d played catch the whole way and Bob was pretty winded. He''d never had much of a throwing arm, preferring that plasticy, dog-throwing gadget. Even the dog looked a little tuckered out. George still went after the sticks. The unnatural attraction of his kind to broken pieces of wood dragged him forward, but his merry, bouncing trot had turned into a dogged, determined march. When they finally reached home, they both crumbled down against the wall and took a minute to recover themselves. ¡°George what about some breakfast? I¡¯m starved. I feel like the only thing I¡¯ve eaten in the past three days is one and half cheese-and-onion crisps, a martini glass of cherries and a barrel of apples.¡± Making the suggestion was one thing, procuring provender was another. Bob dragged himself to his feet, to attempt a hopeful rummaging through the bathroom cupboards. Unfortunately, even Bob hadn¡¯t stored his food supplies in the toilet. ¡°No luck. George, we might have to hunt for our dinner I¡¯m afraid. Golden retrievers are hunting dogs aren¡¯t they? You¡¯ll be back in your element. A return to nature." A bark from George. "Tragically, I am not a hunting person. I¡¯m more of a sit-on-the-couch-and-watch-tv person. George you might need to do the heavy lifting.¡± Who was Bob kidding? George was no hunter. He¡¯d probably try playing with a wild rabbit before he thought about biting through its neck and dragging it home for dinner. A trait in George¡¯s character that Bob couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to lament. Not to mention they''d hadn''t seen the slightest hint of an animal all day. Bob sat himself down on the closed toilet seat. Were they all just meant to starve to death? It was ironic. Bob had never been richer in his life and he was going to die begging for a crust of bread. Except... Hold your horses, Bob thought he remembered something about a system shop. He called up the system interface and tracked down the desired tab; here it was: "Shop". He clicked through and was greeted with a very familiar layout. Huh, it looked like the amazon might have been owed some back-royalties. Or maybe amazon owed them to the system? Independent, parallel development? That was for the courts to decide. Either way the system shop had a strikingly generic layout and design: a top level search bar, a list of categories on the left and a page filled up with featured offers. Only the color schema was markedly different, sticking to the greyscale, arcade video game style of his messages. He peered through today¡¯s offers. They were remarkably unremarkable. There was an assortment of varied and unusual clothing (Bob¡¯s interest in fashion couldn¡¯t have filled up a thimble), what looked like a water bottle, then a series of beauty products, and near the bottom a few newly-released books. Bob was a little disappointed. There had been some 70,000 other inhabited planets already incorporated into the system hegemony. Surely they couldn¡¯t all be human? Maybe the system was automatically catering to him based on race and rank. In the meantime, George had been puttering around the bathroom garden (was that an appropriate description?). He¡¯d already started digging up a few holes here and there and peeing against the wall. Just, you know, doing everything he could to make the spot as unappealing and unlivable as possible. But then he started to hunt back and forth, sniffing along the ground, looking up and around, as though he were trying to square his vision with his memories. Finally he came up to Bob and sort of whined expectantly. ¡°Breakfast, George, right? I¡¯m sorry.¡± George''s appeal preempted what would probably have been a long and digressing exploration of the system shop. Bob quickly searched for dogs bowls. The system had a fine selection and Bob picked out a nice, red one to go with George¡¯s bag. It cost a measly 180 credits. He pushed through the purchase window and reached the checkout page¡ªthe listed total was 1200 credits. What the? Shipping fee - 1020 credits. He pressed the little question mark beside the figure (it was nice how familiar and intuitive the UI was): "anywhere shipping - 10,000 credits per kg." Bloody hell. What a scam. Now where was the prime subscription? That''s what they wanted right. It was all a ploy to get people to sign up to some reoccurring subscription. Bob clicked around a little, dove into the myriad settings and account details, but alas the system shop had decided to diverge with amazon on this point. That must really be what shipping costs. Bob grumbled and cursed. But every dog needs his bowl. He pulled the trigger, his credit total dropped and just beyond the thank you screen, a red bowl materialized and dropped to the ground. George shuffled over, sniffing the bowl¡¯s insides hopefully and then looking disappointedly up at Bob. ¡°It¡¯s coming George. Give a man half a chance.¡± A cardboard box with a smiling pug on the side appeared a moment later. Bob tore it open and poured out a healthy portion into the red bowl. George was hungry. And the dog deserved to eat. George proceeded to shove his face deep in the bowl and chow down. Next Bob looked for some kind of human subsistence. Thankfully the system wasn¡¯t quite as heartless as he¡¯d thought. There were heavily discounted nutrition packets in a couple different flavors. They looked like space food. A jelly in a reflective pack with a plastic knob on top. Super calorie dense. Half a day¡¯s worth somehow squeezed into an 50g pack. He bought two. One roast chicken flavor and another grilled salmon (you know to be healthy). He uncapped the roast chicken and sucked. It didn¡¯t taste like any roast chicken he¡¯d ever had. No if Bob had to put a word to the taste, he would have said it tasted like dust. On the positive side, George seemed to be heartily enjoying his meal. That was good because Bob had some after-breakfast business with the dog. Some magical business. Some magical, training business. Hell, Bob would turn that dog into a superhero. Chapter 29 - Human-Canine Communications George finished his breakfast first and immediately started on some elaborate communicative dance. He took a few steps towards the hilltop, barked, looked back, paused and then rushed over to Bob, before repeating the ritual. You didn''t have to be a mind reader to get the message. ¡°What? You want to go up that hill? Another walk already? We just got back. Give a man a break." Discouraged, George gave up on any open moves towards the hill. Instead he lay at Bob''s feet, giving the man a pitiful, defeated look; clearly the dog was still angling at another long, uphill walk. Bob had other plans though. The two of them had business to attend to. Training if you will. Mind, Bob didn''t fault the dog for not killing Rad and company; on the contrary, he was pleased with how things had turned out. George was Bob''s friend and companion. It was for the best that he hadn''t become weapon and murderer. That being said, the episode had taught Bob the value of clear human-canine communications. Bob had instructed George to breathe fire; George had given Bob a puzzled look and largely ignored him. In a real fight, that would have been the end of them both. Conclusion: Bob needed a consistent way of getting George to breathe fire. The topic was not purely academic either. Chad was gunning for Bob''s neck. The group had practically admitted as much. On top of that, Lad had strongly hinted he had some way of tracking Bob. In other words, Bob and George had twenty four hours to build their skills, before a highly-motivated and veteran group of killers hunted them down. They''d be no further bribes, since Bob had supposedly already handed over his life savings. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice, I''ll put you in the ground. They''d have to stand and fight. Bob downed as much of the nutrition pack as he could; it almost proved too much for his poor stomach which made a series of revolutionary grumblings, but ultimately accepted the interverse swill. He threw the empty container into the little bathroom bin. He paused. And then threw the still-full, salmon-flavored container beside it. His stomach thanked him heartily. Breakfast out of the way, they could finally train. Bob stood up with much unnecessary groaning and headed outside. George, conveniently misinterpreting, jumped after and started up at the hillside. "Come back, George." George stopped, looked back and decided he''d wait for Bob to catch up. Very magnanimous. Bob, however, walked away from the hill and searched for another muddy clearing. George whined and whistled, but Bob was careful not to look round and after a short battle of wills the dog caved and came over to where Bob was standing. "Let''s see where we are right now," Bob pointed George at a larger stone, "Fire!" George blankly ignored the command. It was probably Bob''s fault to be honest. He spent a lot of time talking directly at George and George had learned by now to ignore the incoherent ramblings of his master. Some dogs just enjoy barking. Bob squatted down, "George, when I say, ''fire'', I want you to shoot out that magical fire breath of yours. Got it?" George beamed up at Bob and barked loudly. Who doesn''t enjoy playing? "Good you got it right? Great, great, let''s go again." Bob pointed at the stone and shouted, "Fire!" George jumped at the sudden, loud noise and looked excitedly over at Bob. Bob sighed. Why had he ever thought George would be capable of this? Bob puzzled over the problem for a few minutes. Maybe George hadn''t quite understood that "fire" was a command word yet. He had probably assumed it was one of those other, numerous, meaningless sounds that Bob enjoyed making for unexplainable reasons. Let''s try to put George in the mood. Bob stood in front of the dog with raised index finger: "Sit." George came to attention in the noble posture of his species. "Shake," George extended his left paw to Bob''s open palm and then his right paw. "Lie Down." George flattened himself against the ground. "Roll Over." Bob motioned a circle with his finger and George obediently rolled over. "Wait." George froze, doing his best to look unconcerned, but really sneaking glances at Bob and at his outstretched finger. Bob was misty-eyed, searching through the system shop for some affordable dog treats. A plastic see-through container dutifully materialized in front of Bob. Bob caught it with his free hand, unscrewed the lid and placed one brown sphere before George''s nose. The dog was evidently tempted, but George nobly resisted his animal instincts. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Release." Bob relented and George snapped up the treat, chewing fiercely, while Bob patted him on the head and praised him. This sequence of commands was the hard boundary on George''s abilities. George had always fiercely ignored the "come," "heel" and "drop it" commands. Somehow the dog felt those commands violated his personal freedom. It didn''t help that ignoring them tended to lead to good outcomes. If George didn''t come, Bob probably would come or would pull out some treat to tempt him over. If George didn''t heel, Bob would fold immediately and either increase his pace to match the dog or slow down to let George sniff whatever had taken his fancy. If George didn''t drop whatever he was holding, Bob would offer something of greater value in trade. Bob couldn''t tell if the dog was clever or stupid. It did occur to him now that he tended to be on the losing side of each transaction. Maybe that was answer enough. Even the handful of commands George would obey needed to be given in exactly the same order. Namely the previously demonstrated one. If Bob tried to jump straight to the "Lie Down" command, George would give him a skeptical look, as though he thought Bob might have forgotten how the game was supposed to be played. Sometimes, if Bob was lucky, the dog would shrug and obey, but frequently he''d stubbornly wait until things were done properly. Ok, now to business. The deal was firmly established and fresh in everyone''s mind. Bob would give George a treat if George obeyed his instructions. There we go. George had finished his treat and was eying Bob hopefully. Or rather he was eyeing the plastic container of dog treats in Bob''s arms. Good, the dog was hooked. Bob pointed at the stone: "Fire!" George walked over to the stone, sniffed it and then looked back at Bob. It''s just an ordinary stone, the dog''s expression seemed to say. Bob facepalmed. Some dogs are made for combat and some dogs are made for love. George fell into the latter camp. Bob tried to plan out his next move. What had gotten George to breathe fire last time? Last time, George had shamelessly attacked Mrs. Mud Sphere. Well that was worth a try. Bob sculpted another little mud ball, Miss. Mud Sphere and set her up on top of the stone. George squinted suspiciously at the mud. He stepped back, he inhaled. Bloody hell. What did the dog have against spherical mud? "Sit." Bob called out just in time. George caught himself and folded himself up into a seated position. Bob paused here a moment. What should he do? Jump straight to fire? He was still standing right beside the stone target. Inside the firing range. He''d just creep out. George twitched impatiently. "Shake." George stretched out one paw and then the next. "Lie Down." George fell to the ground. "Roll Over." The dog completed a full rotation. "Wait." The dog stilled. "Wait, wait, wait," Bob put as much distance as he could between himself and the stone. "Fire!" George jumped up, breathed in and bathed the stone in an explosion of orange flames. It had actually worked. Bob rushed over and showered the dog in praise. George strutted up to his master and accepted his treat as justly deserved homage. They were a little too close to the bomb zone and Bob ended up swallowing down a mouthful of the black, oily smoke billowing off the stone and its surrounding. He promptly evacuated the scene, but he still had to spend the next minute coughing his lungs out. On the whole, however, he was delighted with the turn of events. This was progress. Now he just had to reinforce the lesson until it stuck. Twenty or so attempts later the landscape was looking blacker than Bob remembered. George really wasn''t good for the environment. They''d had to relocate a couple times after the devastation become too much for Bob''s sensitive respiratory system to process. George, annoyingly, seemed largely unaffected. Bob shaded his eyes and looked over their practice area. There were black stains, where smoke continue to drain up into the sky. It looked like the aftermath of a bomb run. Reinforcement had gone splendidly. Well mostly splendidly. Well somewhat successfully. For one, Bob had been able to gradually ween the dog of his mud-rage (though many innocent mud souls were sacrificed in the process). George no longer attacked ball-shaped mud citizens on sight. Better yet, George would now fire in a pointed direction. That meant Bob would be able to direct George in combat. So a big win there. Tangible progress. The only tangible progress of the day so far. However... yes, tragically, there is a however. There was a complication. Now whose fault it had been was an open question, probably an unanswerable one, definitely unanswerable. Certainly nobody could claim it was Bob''s fault. And yet, the thing was, George had firmly internalized the "fire" command as the final command of the whole command sequence. In other words, George flat out refused to use fire (at Bob''s direction), unless Bob went through the whole damn ritual, sitting and shaking, lying down and rolling over. This was more than a little frustrating. The two of them would be a complete laughing stock. While their enemies tried to cut them down, Bob would be walking George through his tricks. However... yes thankfully there is another however. Bob knew how to think outside the box. To shore up this weakness, Bob had been making the dog practice the priming sequence over and over. These efforts were not without fruit. George could transition from sit to shake, from lie down to roll over, with lightning speed, blurring one motion into another as Bob called out command after command. He wasn''t the same dog he''d been an hour ago. He was a dancer, a flowing mover between forms. Bob was proud of the dog''s progress. He ruffled George''s head. Of course, no matter how elegantly and smoothly George could shift from one position to the next, the change was not instantaneous. Even on his best runs, it still took George a couple seconds to reach the primed, "wait" state. A couple seconds in the middle of a combat situation would be the difference between death and victory. A couple seconds too slow was a couple seconds too late. Was the new and improved George up to task of defending his helpless master Bob from the infamous trio, Rad, Chad and Lad? Bob sure hoped so. Chapter 30 - Pay-to-trigger Trap George didn''t look so good. Twenty successfully executed command sequences translated to twenty dog treats. Twenty dog treats on top of what had been a very generous breakfast. And George hadn''t hesitated to stuff down every last one. Needless to say, George was feeling the consequences of his life choices. "Sorry about that George, we probably should have trained before breakfast rather than after, eh? Can''t help it now can we." Bob slapped George on his side and the dog gave his master an annoyed and somewhat dizzy look. "Whoops my bad. So, George you still want to climb that hill?" Bob could be a little mean at times. George looked longingly up at the hill. He whined a little (why couldn''t we go before), but wobbled forward all the same. That dog really was something. Bob looked on with not a little awe. Together they trekked their way up the rising slope. George made it twenty or so steps before the inevitable happened. The dog vomited up all twenty treats and a portion of his breakfast. Dogs really have no self-control do they? You''d think animals would know to stop eating after they were full. Some evolutionary hoarding instinct maybe. Bob knelt beside the dog, cleaning his beard fur with one of the bathroom''s nice cotton towels. As soon as he was clean, George naturally gandered a lick at the pool of warm sick. Waste not want not. Bob had to drag the dog away from his literal seconds. It turned out that throwing up was exactly what the dog had needed. His stomach lightened, George bounced back in spirit and energy. "Don''t run off too far." Maybe the dog heard, maybe he didn¡¯t. George did run off all the same, zigzagging around the tall grasses and having himself a ball of time. Bob shook his head, trying to frown at the dog¡¯s utter lack of caution, but finding he couldn¡¯t quite hold back a smile at the dog¡¯s antics. George really did know how to lighten the mood. Strictly speaking, to the top of that hill hardly constituted a walk at all. The bathroom had been dropped into a small leveling as the hill stepped forward before sloping down. From door to summit couldn¡¯t have been more than a couple hundred meters along a gentle, controlled slope. The whole thing wouldn¡¯t even take them ten minutes. During the walk, Bob found the time to worry himself about their living situation. The system shop was a real lifeline, no mistake, but somehow he felt more like he''d swallowed a fishhook than been pulled kindly up onto dry land. Those shipping rates were criminal. 10,000 credits per kilogram! Bob grimaced to himself as he walked behind the dog, keeping an eye on the playful tail bouncing up and down. The more Bob saw the system in action, the more he thought it was all some elaborate money-grab. The system swoops in with its initiation, slaughtering four-fifth of the population, then plays twister with our planet, destroying all civilization and decimating any means we might have had to support ourselves and, the coup de grace, it sets up a system-run monopoly with exorbitant prices. All that was left was to watch us struggle and suffer as we all mercilessly choke to death. Had the system turned earth into a slave colony? Still despite his grumblings, Bob had to acknowledge he was better off than most. His stellar initiation performance had netted him some four million credits profit. He would be able to afford food for himself and George for the foreseeable future. Alas man can¡¯t live on bread alone. Water. Man is made of water. Water, the liquid of life, the unfortunately extremely heavy liquid of life. An average human used about 50-100 liters of water a day. Of course, most of that was consumed by the unnecessary luxuries of showering, washing clothes and cooking. But still between the two of them, they¡¯d want at least five liters a day, wouldn¡¯t they? Especially if they ended up having to fight and walk and run. Five liters would set Bob back 50,000 credits a day. A pretty penny to secure a basic human right. Even Bob¡¯s fortune would be bled dry in a month or two. And Bob was the lucky one. What had Rad said? Their whole company had had less than 2600 credits all told. They''d have had to pool their funds just to buy that plastic bowl and the dog''s breakfast. Store-bought food and water were impossibly expensive. No wonder people felt little choice but to turn to banditry. If you valued your conscience and declined to turn bandit, you''d have to forage and hunt. Something must live in these grasslands. Or maybe not, Bob reconsidered, they hadn''t seen a single animal all day. Animals, at least the semi-sentients, seemed to had participated in the initiation along with humans. That meant they had been slaughtered wholesale. An 82% reduction in their numbers, combined with the fact that any survivors now had magical powers, did not make hunting an attractive proposition. High risk, low reward. Hell we might be seeing an age where the animals start hunting humans again. If George had a mind to, he could certainly drop Bob whenever he felt like it. The thought of magically-enhanced predators stalking them in the tall grasses spoiled the walk''s tranquility for Bob. He felt a sudden need to keep George occupied and out of trouble. The dog had already gotten them into one pickle today and Bob wanted to avoid a second. Well George was a golden retriever wasn¡¯t he? One easy way to keep that breed distracted. Bob scrambled around for a dead branch. ¡°Here George, get the stick.¡± Bob hurled the stick in their direction of travel, walking briskly up behind. George bounded off, always pleased to rush after thrown things. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. However, perhaps still dazed by his gluttony and subsequent regurgitation, the dog seemed to have some trouble finding the branch. He nosed around, looked up confusedly, barked, circled. Finally he rushed back to Bob with a stick in his mouth. ¡°Drop.¡± George dropped the stick and Bob picked it up, still making a beeline to the hill¡¯s crown. ¡°What? This isn¡¯t the stick I threw, George. No, wait a moment,¡± Bob thought he recognized the object, ¡°isn¡¯t this the stick you brought last time.¡± Bob eyed the dog suspiciously. ¡°Where¡¯d you find this George?¡± The dog barked happily, the picture of innocent. Bob was not to be dissuaded though. It was definitely the same stick. The nice one, well-balanced and well-proportioned. The dog must have been carrying the stick around with him somehow. And there was only one place to look. Bob reached over and flipped open the leather satchel on George¡¯s back, sure he¡¯d find a series of nicknacks and worthless objects, but, hm... the bag was quite empty. ¡°When¡¯s you learn to do magic George?¡± The dog, a little hot from running back and forth, panted alongside Bob with his tongue lolling out. ¡°The consummate professional I see. Never let the audience in of the trick.¡± Bob hurled the stick again, this time almost cresting the hilltop. George ran after and Bob trained hawk-like eyes on the creature. This time, however, George zoomed straight for where the stick had landed, neatly picked it up in his mouth and cantered back to Bob¡¯s location. ¡°You¡¯ve outsmarted me George.¡± Bob was shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you did it.¡± He ruffled the dog¡¯s head as they both summited the hill, George barking contentedly. Was George secretly a genius? Hello there. Standing on the crest of the hill stood a metal tripod: a black, three legged, futuristic device planted into the ground. ¡°No George,¡± Bob had to grab the dog by the scruff of his neck to prevent him from immediately lunging at the thing. Bob approached slowly. He circled the object and then he circled it again. It looked harmless enough. At any rate it hadn¡¯t transformed into some kind of sentry gun and chopped them both down. So Bob mustered up his courage. He tiptoed just close enough to reach out a hand and... touched the object.
Unlock system pylon? Yes or No Price: 100,000 credits
The message had startled Bob and he¡¯d been sprinting for the cover before he finally processed the grey, translucent text on his display. System pylon, he chewed on the unfamiliar word, what did pylon mean again? Was there a system dictionary? Alas the system seemed to assume basic linguistic competency from its charges. Most unreasonable. Bob associated the word with those skeletal towers that carried electricity over mountaintops, but it was a low confidence association. Bob walked back over to the object and came down into a crossed-legged seating position. He let George wander free and the dog approached the tripod, gave it a few level sniffs and one long lick, before deciding it was a poor companion and bumbling off to pursue mischief elsewhere. Bob was debating the merits of unlocking the so-called system pylon. He had no idea what the thing would do. So the question had an abstract, amorphous quality like a badly framed moral dilemma. First from the financial perspective, 100,000 credits was nothing to Bob. He¡¯d been thinking of spending that much on drinking water for himself and George over a weekend. He knew now, however, that 100,000 credits was rather a lot for the average survivor. The exit fee had been a mere 1000 credits and most (sane) people would likely exit the casino as soon as they could afford the fee. That would leave them with 0 credits or whatever chips were left over, so maybe 200-300 credits at the most. Combine that with the marked absence of any obvious credit earning mechanism and it was hard to see how most survivors could dream of affording such a proposition. Second from the moral perspective, would the system be so twistedly evil as to actually set up a pay-to-trigger trap? It would constitute the utter height of cruelty. You¡¯re greeted with an innocuous system message offering you the option to unlock a system pylon. You press yes and the whole hillside explodes, or it triggers some tower defense invasion and the hill starts getting assaulted by waves of angry monsters. And it only costs you 100,000 credits for the privilege. Bob frowned. He thought the prospect unlikely. Unlikely but not impossible. He could see the system justifying itself by saying something along the lines of: why did he trust a random notification? Doesn¡¯t he know there are bad people in this world? Hasn¡¯t he ever been scammed before? He should thank us, we just taught him the value of some healthy skepticism. Aha, Bob might have found a loophole. The message had not disappeared when he¡¯d made his quick dash for shelter. In other words, he could accept the request without standing next to the pylon. Very well. ¡°Come on, George.¡± Together they descended a good hundred paces. ¡°Ok George, you ready? Brace yourself ok. 2 to 1 we are going to have sprint for the bathroom base. You got that?¡± George was a dog and human language was not his speciality, but he did bark and seemed ready to run after whatever Bob was planning to throw. Bob pressed yes. The hill rumbled and Bob was almost knocked off his feet. He looked up to see the tripod pillaring upwards as a large, black tower started to emerge from the hillside. Good God, what I have gotten myself into. Bob laid a hand on George (just in case) as he watched the tower shimmer to life, blue holographic panels flashing on between the framework. It did look a little like one of those electric pylons, didn¡¯t it? Must be where the name came from. The rumbling stilled, the pylon appearing to have completed its transformation. Bob waited. One, two, three. Nothing happened. He sighed. They were all good. It is was over. He was safe¡ª Ping! A system notification. Ok, not unexpected. Ping, ping! Two more. Three in total, fair, fair, all within predictions. Ping, ping, ping! Six notifications. Six bloody notifications. Bob went white. Had he just done something he shouldn¡¯t have? Was it a coincidence that a system pylon had been placed almost directly beside his starting position? Beside his starting position, Robert Brown, probably the only survivor with enough credits to afford unlocking it. Yeah that was likely. There were probably system pylons all over the place. It was a pylon pandemic. People were already complaining that they were spoiling the view. Or not and Bob had ended up doing exactly what the system wanted him to. Only one way to find out. Chapter 31 - Ivory Tower Magician Bob was standing on the hillside, bracing himself to open the string of six notifications that had bombarded his inbox upon unleashing the black monstrosity that towered overhead, the so-called "system pylon". George too looked to have received his fair share of messages, for the dog had fallen into a sit position and was staring into blank space. Bob swallowed nervously. It was going to be bad news, wasn¡¯t it? It had to be. Maybe he could just ignore the messages. Things don¡¯t exist until you look at them, right? Was there any inbox functionality here? It might be psychologically beneficial if he just marked all system correspondence as spam and lived peaceably as a hermit in some mountain cave. Bob clicked the first message:
World Event: First System Pylon Claimed The dark ages are over. The age of the civilization begins. Cities rise up from the plains. The banners of empire flutter against the winds of war. There is one sun in the heavens, let there be one lord to the earth. Conquer or submit.
"Nice, a nice, benign message, really just a system announcement, a PA over the system radio network. Hadn¡¯t Civilizations IV had an event like this? Classic video-game nonsense. And a little bit over the top at that, if you ask me. I might have phrased it differently." One down, five to go.
Title: Baron The lowest noble title. Effects:
"A baron, not bad," Bob stroked the small patch of stubble above his lip that was all the beard he¡¯d managed to grow since civilization broke down. "Baron Bob, Bob the Baron." Good news, this was good news right? Bob had joined the ranks of the nobility. Or better put, his inherent nobility had finally been acknowledged by the system and he had been afforded a position suitable to his character. "Thank you very much, system. I won¡¯t even hold the inexcusable delay against you. Call it nobility of spirit." And look at those effects. Token was a little disappointing, but the title provided benefits to everything but luck. No wonder nobody wanted to play a damn peasant. Two down, four left.
Achievement: First Aristocrat "Somebody has to be in charge. It might as well be me." ¡ªlast words before several millennium of class conflict Effects:
No, Bob grimaced, it wasn¡¯t fair, it wasn¡¯t his fault. He hadn¡¯t meant to claim aristocracy. It had just happened. Hell the system had set him up from the start. Bob¡¯s quick mind hadn¡¯t missed the single, salient point in the text: ¡°minor decrease in wisdom.¡± Bob couldn¡¯t afford any more blows to his wisdom. It already stood on feeble. Could a man sink below feeble? What stood below feeble on the system scale? Lacking, inept, maybe it would just write N/A (Not Applicable). Bob shook his fist at the heavens. "You planned this. Don¡¯t tell me you didn¡¯t plan this?" Bob also wasn¡¯t a fan of the implication: an increase in intelligence matched with a decrease in wisdom. Why did that make him think the achievement communicated a distinct lack of long-term thinking? Almost as though the system was telling him he was going to regret achieving it. But at least the notification clued Bob into the contents of the next message. As expected:
Title Upgraded: Baron - > Viscount Title: Viscount A noble title. Above baron, below earl. Effects:
Who wanted to be a baron anyway? Barons were the lowest rung in the long aristocratic ladder. Bob was made of finer stuff. He was a rarified, intellectual individual. The title even came with abilities. Bob would have to check those out later. But right now he was running the gauntlet, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Three down, three left.
Title: Lord of Earth (provisional) All hail Bob Brown, Lord of Earth (for now) Effects:
Had Bob ever thought as he sat at his desk and typed out lonely bug tickets on his laptop that he would one day be called, even provisionally, lord of earth. Lord of Earth. Heaven''s Chosen Emperor. King of Kings. Mountain among Men. No, never, never in his wildest imaginations, in his most absurd day-dreams. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Bob had been the lowest ranking member of his developer team. The led. The subordinate. The follower. And now... But what do they say, the best leaders don¡¯t choose to lead, circumstances force them to take up the mantle. With any luck, that rule would apply universally and in reverse, and Bob would turn out to be a smashing lord after all. Still Bob was a man, wasn¡¯t he? He had had his share of boyish dreams. He¡¯d seen himself with a crown on his head, sitting on a charger at the front of a battle line of mail-clad knights, giving the kind of rousing speech legends are made of. Bob, Lord of Earth. Had a ring to it didn¡¯t it? Wasn¡¯t there a yellow emperor in Chinese mythology? And now: the Brown Emperor. It¡¯d didn¡¯t quite work, did it? Bob frowned. Brown wasn¡¯t the most flattering of colors. The Brown Dynasty. No, it sounded like something vulgar. If only... Aha! George. George, was the dog for job. The Golden Emperor. Now that was a title. Could Bob somehow bestow the title on the dog? Something to research. He moved through to the next message:
Quest: Conquer the World (Personal) Gain control of at least 50% of the world''s surface. Reward: Lord of Earth
The king¡¯s way. The trial by conquest. For a few moments, Bob imagined himself battling for mastery, taking the world by storm, painting a new legend for all time, and then he came back to himself. Talk about a pipe dream. Bob was many things, but blindly ambition to the point of suicidal was not one of them and a person would have to be at least that to think conquering the world was a good idea for a rainy afternoon. Bob didn¡¯t want the responsibility. He didn¡¯t want the danger. He didn¡¯t even really want the outcome. Hell what could you do with absolute mastery anyway? It sounded like a right pain. He¡¯d rather remain anonymous and hunker down in his living room to read fantasy novels. There was a life! Right. All of these titles, quests and achievements were very flattering, but Bob wasn¡¯t about to get shanghaied into some absurd world conquest scenario. He figured he¡¯d just potter around until someone else conquered the world. No point trying too hard at anything. Bob was feeling almost cheerful, he¡¯d largely weathered the storm. Nothing¡¯s as bad as we imagine it will be. Five messages down, one to go. Probably some benign explanation of the system pylon. An admin notification maybe. He tapped through to the final message:
Quest: Sword of Damocles (World) Kill Viscount Bob, Lord of Earth Reward:
Bob caught his right hand in an iron grip, held it up before his face and shook it fiercely. "What have you done? What have you done to me? Betrayer. Betrayer. I always loved you." His fateful, right hand said nothing. But somewhere, from far away, Bob was sure he heard laughter. "No, they can¡¯t mean me right?" Bob jumped straight into denial. "No way, it¡¯s somebody else. There¡¯s some other Bob. Ah yes, Other Bob. Other Bob, you have my utmost sympathy. It¡¯s a hard world. Settle your affairs, put everything in order. Make peace with your enemies. Let go of old grudges. Spend quality time with loved ones. Share your stories with the world. For death approaches." "It can¡¯t be me. It can''t be me. It¡¯s definitely me. It¡¯s totally, 100% me isn¡¯t it? For fuck¡¯s sake. I did nothing more than what any half-curious monkey would have done. And to literally have an 1,000,000 credit bounty stuck on my head. It¡¯s not done. It¡¯s not gentlemanly. Come on system, it¡¯s a joke right? Please make the bad thing go away. " Somehow it had taken Bob one short walk with his dog on the first full day of the apocalypse to generate a world-wide, ¡°let¡¯s kill Bob quest.¡± It was staggeringly unlucky. Wasn¡¯t Bob supposed to be lucky? Wasn¡¯t he supposed to have godly luck? What in this scenario was lucky? Bob''s worst fears were all but confirmed. There was a simple explanation: Bob was lucky in the system''s eyes. The system considered all of this to be good and positive. The system felt it had given him a pat on the back and a gold sticker. "For crying out loud. Does anybody know how you can lower your luck?" If only George had been a black cat or something. Bob crumbled down onto the muddy grass. He was defeated spirt and soul. He was burnt toast. "Toast, toast, toast," Bob repeated the word to himself. George was sitting beside him. The dog was looking intensely at him, strangely intensely, worryingly intensely. George must have gotten the world quest too. 1,000,000 credits. That was a lifetime supply of dog treats. Enough to tempt even the most honorable of companions. George continued to stare. Sweat trickled down the back of Bob''s neck. No, Bob couldn¡¯t believe it, he wouldn''t. Not George. Not George at least. Bob looked into those brown eyes: ¡°et tu George?¡± George barked, bounced over to Bob and rubbed his face against Bob¡¯s cheek. The dog looked to have thoroughly enjoyed their walk. Bob sighed and gave a quiet thank you to the heavens. ¡°I knew you¡¯d never betray me George. You and me, this,¡± he pointed between them, ¡°this is forever.¡± He stroked the dog¡¯s head as George puddled down onto his lap. Bob sat there silently, chewing over events. There were hard and gristly and tasted bad. He''d have liked to spit them out on the ground and washed his mouth out. But nothing for it. Ok, Bob, you know how to ask the hard questions: what are you going to do? What was Bob going to do? Quite the conundrum. With great power comes great enemies. Now the Sword of Damocles quest probably wasn''t a pure kill-Bob quest. It was probably a kill-the-lord-of-earth quest. The system wanted to keep any potential lords of earth on their toes. Didn''t want them getting complacent and forgetting their responsibilities. In other words, all Bob had to do was get rid of his lord of earth title. Easy. Except how can you give up a title? Bob played around with his interface, his character page, his titles tab. There was no convenient: "give up title" button. No, it wouldn''t be the system we all know and love if that kind of easy exit was tolerated. Any solution would have to be more involved. What if someone else managed to conquer fifty percent of the world''s surface? They''d probably be awarded the Lord of Earth Title. And they''d have earned it (unlike Bob). Fat chance of that happening anytime soon. The world was a big place and, in case you hadn''t noticed, it has just suffered its worst disaster since the extinction of the dinosaurs. Nobody was about to stand up and say: "Guys I know what we should do this weekend. Let''s conquer the world." What about if someone managed to reach a higher noble rank than Bob? How long would that take? A very, very long time and it would probably cost a dragon''s hoard of credits. Nope, Bob was not getting rid of this title any time soon. Bob was just supposed to faff around with a target on his head to the tune of a million credits. Bob had really stepped in it this time. Bob had wanted to study magic in peace and quiet. He''d dreamed of becoming a respected ivory tower magician. The kind that only engages weak enemies with overwhelming and unnecessary force. Now he''d have his hands full just surviving out the week. If three''s company (Rad, Chad and Lad) weren''t coming after him before, they were coming after him now. He''d even gone and told them his name. But forget Rad and co, they were pocket change at this point; every survivor within a hundred miles was probably headed this way and they all shared the same unsettling ambition: to put Bob''s head on a stake. Bob gazed up at the giant pylon thingy, towering into the blue sky, like some giant "Bob lives here" sign. Now if Bob could just do something about that ugly tower, maybe he''s still have a shot. He had to act fast. Chapter 32 - Devils Twister Bob sprinted up the slope and to the foot of the system pylon. There Bob rested, hands on knees, catching his breath. What? He had been running uphill. The pylon was an absolute eyesore. Sure it was a technological marvel that might have belonged to some alien civilization, pulsing blue panels and sculpted black metal, but it ruined the quiet grace of the grasslands. And standing at ten stories tall, the pylon was a gargantuan signpost as to Bob''s location. That is to say the location of Viscount Bob, Lord of Earth, enemy number one. Put him in the ground and earn yourself a sweet one million credits. In other words, people would be heading in this direction. People with untoward intentions towards our innocent and defenseless Bob. The thing was magical wasn¡¯t it? There had to be some option to move the pylon underground, shrink it to its previous size or even turn it invisible. Bob pulled up his augmented reality menu. The smooth, now familiar overlay of Bob¡¯s natural vision responded instantly. There, in the side menu, was his hard-won new tab, iconed with a cluster of little buildings surrounding a flag: ¡°settlement.¡± Bob clicked through and was greeted by a list with one item: ¡°Earth Settlement 1.¡±
Earth Settlement 1 Owner: Viscount Bob Governor: Viscount Bob Settlement Level: 0 Financial Position: Balanced
Talk about a glorious capital city. Bob had seen ghost-towns with more people and substantially more buildings. Bob, don¡¯t get distracted, we¡¯re on the clock here. His inner urgings didn¡¯t stop Bob from clicking aimlessly around. The high-level statistics functioned as gateway pages. Clicking on any of the row items brought him to a detailed breakdown of various factors and statistics, as well as any options or actions he was allowed to take. Bob, focus. Ah yes, hordes of bounty hunters were right now noticing the dark tower and heading towards it with all haste. Unfortunately, Bob was faced with his most challenging foe yet: deep-nested settings panels. Bob was a proud member of the internet age. He had a phone. That phone had settings. And Bob would gratefully suffer through any inconvenience if it let him avoid delving into a sub-menu, or god-forbid, a sub-sub-menu. But now the stakes were higher. Bob tapped through and found himself immediately lost in an endless array of different settings. Preferred units, customized displays, notification settings, tax breakdown, immigration strategy, building permits. It was like he was managing a small city. Which he supposed he was. He clicked wildly through, jumping at anything that seemed even potentially relevant, wading through dense and meaningless words only to flounder back up to the top-menu. It was a settings labyrinth, an evil, living maze. Bob dashed around the rambling passageways of his UI: civil law - > zoning law - > land use types - > height restrictions - > setback requirements - > height restrictions... Wait a moment, there it was! A panel: ¡°system pylon.¡± He couldn¡¯t believe his eyes. Inside was the option he was searching for, system pylon visibility, currently toggled to on. On the one hand, he was amazed that such a convenient option existed. On the other hand, it would have been truly appalling if every city in the interverse was required to have its skyline eternally scarred by the presence of a system pylon. One of the perks of being the 73,926th integrated planet was that his predecessors had had plenty of time to complain. When Bob flicked the switch, the tower shimmered momentarily and then seemed to melt into the sky. It was a compelling illusion, very compelling, enough for George to rush head first into the very much still present tower and bounce back, barking and snarling at his invisible foe. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Had Bob made it in time? He cocked an ear, listening for the footsteps of the greedy mob. Silence. So... maybe? Maybe no one had seen it. Maybe he was safe. Bob let himself lie down on the grassy slope. George continued to snarl and threaten his unseen attacker. Bob stared up at the sky. A few white clouds slipped by, carried on a strong breeze, and warm sunlight spilled down, giving the grass a fresh, sunny brilliance. It was a beautiful day. Not a trace of that awful storm of last night. Bob pulled up the system''s weather application to see if the weather would hold. No, the weather would not hold. The system forecast gave the rosy prediction of rain every night for the foreseeable future. You could see fifteen days full ahead and each of them was marred by black rain clouds. Just my luck. Bob got the feeling that the system¡¯s world terraform had somehow not accounted for natural weather patterns. This perpetual rain couldn''t be normal. They were all in for an extreme and arbitrary form of climate change. The predictions were footnoted with a little asterisk. Bob mentally focused on the symbol and a disclaimer popped up:
Predictions are 100% accurate (barring sentient interference)
Bob missed the days when he could cheerily ignore predictions of rain and blindly trust that the weather man was just flipping a coin anyway. It took away some of life¡¯s mystery to know with certainty what the day¡¯s weather would hold. Especially when the predicted weather was bad. "Bob, what the hell are you doing? Are you seriously checking the weather right now?" "I can''t build a plan for the day unless I know what the sky''s doing, can I?" "THE DEMONS ARE COMING! You need to act. You need to run. GO! NOW!" "Five more minutes." Bob was procrastinating and he knew it. It was easier to pretend nothing had happened. To imagine the two of them weren''t in terrible danger. It was easier to lie there, looking up at the blue sky and widely misinterpreting cloud shapes. Of course Bob would go in the end. But what difference could five minutes make in the grand scheme of things? Five minutes? Snap! Yes, yes, of course, five minutes are the difference between life and death, and procrastination is the father of all sins. Bob reminded himself that he deserved everything that was coming to him. Time to hear the music. The countdown to some grizzly and gruesome death. Bob took a deep breath. Steady now, old chap. Bob made to turn towards the sound. He couldn''t. He couldn''t! He couldn''t move his head at all. It was stuck. The ground had glued itself to his skin. Bob pulled. Bob stopped pulling, his eyes tearing up from the pain. His nice skin had decided it preferred the company of the soil to that of the back of his head. He tried to move his feet. Stuck! His left arm. Stuck! His right knee where the cloak had folded back. Stuck, stuck, stuck! Every spot of skin that had been in contact with the ground was now fused in place. He was trapped in a game of Devil''s Twister. And rule breaking was strongly frowned upon. Oh no, oh no. Bob''s heart had decided the situation demanded overdrive. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. His whole body tensed up. Electrical signals exploded across his nervous system. He felt himself twitch and shiver. He was panting. Fight or Flight? Fight or Flight? Flight! Flight! I choose flight. Dealer chooses fight. "George, George, where are you?" The dog was barking and yelping, but Bob couldn''t see what was happening. The dog was too far away from him. Had he been caught in the same attack? But the dog had been standing; most of his body should still be free. George could fight. Bob, though, Bob was in a bad spot. "I tried to warn you. I did warn you. The demons are coming, I said. The demons are coming." Bob could still move his right arm up to the elbow joint (he''d been pointing out funny cloud shapes in the sky). His fingers spidered across the grass. They landed on something hard and round. A stone. He was armed. He could fight. Beware Bob and the stone. "The demons are coming." Where? Where was the enemy? Bob rolled his eyes around in his head, scanning the surroundings with his peripheral vision. He couldn''t see anything. The green grasses. The blue sky. He strained to listen. But there were no heavy footfalls, no triumphant laughter. Where were they? "Show yourself scoundrel." Were they going after George first? Not George. Bob hazarded another sharp pull of his left arm. An agony of pain. This was a self-flaying. And the arm wasn''t even free. "George, you alright? George, what can you see?" Ruff! Ruff! That didn''t mean anything to Bob. Never ask a dog for directions. What could he do? What could Bob do? Trapped, stranded, helpless. And then Bob caught it, in the very corner of his eye, the faintest shimmer of movement. There was a low rustle in the grasses. Bob strained to see, willing his eye further into the side of his head. There was the glint of something metallic and shiny, of something pointed and sinister. It was coming closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Patiently. Bob watched. His whole being focused on that small square in his peripheral vision. And then he recognized his enemy. "What? But, but how..." Bob spluttered, the shock and terror overwhelming him. "No, no... Surely not. Not you! Anyone but you. It can''t be. Heaven''s above. Mercy! Mercy!" Chapter 33 - The Drawbridge Bob knew his enemy. Oh yes, Bob knew. Bob recognized the creature at once. How could he not? Bob had gazed entranced at its immortalized form for hour after hour. In uneasy sleep, Bob had muttered its name over and over. The two of them were bound together, entwined through some conspiracy of fate. Yes, yes, Bob knew the monster. And here it was, at last, before him, in the flesh. The symbol of the grind, of the slow death, of the evil inherent in all things and all acts and all peoples. Bob spat out the name, "The Russian Tortoise." Its forward appendages twisted hideously backwards upon themselves. Its shell was a pattern of dark patches spiderwebbed with pure yellow. Its fingers were the long, wicked claws of a predator. And its eyes, oh its eyes, those black, emotionless holes that see beyond time and death. Bob looked up into the sky. Was there a God up there? What God? What God could allow such evil into his paradise? For squeezed inside the mouth of the tortoise was a set of steel dentures. A sharp forest of incisors. A hedgerow of metal thorns. The sunlight glinted meanly off them. Gnash, Gnash, Gnash, the tortoise goaded him. Bob was in a tight spot. The six-inch demon tortoise with the razor sharp teeth had caught him in its trap spell. Three of his limbs and his head were glued into position. He could only move his back, bottom and right forearm, the places protected by his cloak. Back, bottom and right forearm. Not exactly a man''s strongest body parts. Meanwhile the tortoise waddled determinedly forward. It was approaching from his left side. He watched its slow progress from his peripheral vision. The little tortoise had some difficulty navigating the uneven ground. It misstepped and almost toppled over onto its back. But evil always prevails. With great effort, it righted itself. The tortoise waddled onwards. "Sergeant, what are you waiting for? The guns, sergeant, the guns." "Inserting mortar round. Mortar round primed. On your mark, general." "Fire!" Bob launched a pebble into the air. It''s not particularly easy throwing stones with just your forearm. Especially if you have to launch them over your own body and then arch them down onto a moving enemy. But Bob did his best. Impact! There was a shower of dirt and mud. Too short. The tortoise soldiered on. "Reload!" Bob''s quickly gathered as many small stones and pebbles as he could find. Gnash, Gnash. The tortoise battering-ram rolled forward. It was making for bellybutton gate. The tortoise had decided it would eat him from the middle upwards. "Adjust angle!" "Angle adjusted." "Fire!" The pebble-shell overshot, cratering down and throwing up a cloud of dust. The tortoise waddled through, its pointed beak proud and evil, its dark eyes lasered onto the castle''s weak point. "Again! Quickly!" The tortoise was closing in. Soon they''d be out of effective range. This was their last shot. They had to nail it now. Bob lined up his aim and... "Fire!" The large stone missiled up. It peaked and turned. It was on track. They had him. The lumbering monster couldn''t get away in time. They had him. Impact pending... Crunch "General, it''s been an honor serving with you." "Likewise, sergeant." The tortoise had caught the stone in its mouth and... pulverized it. There was no other word for it. The mighty boulder had been crushed down into dust and powder. The wind caught up what remained and carried it far away into the peaceful horizon. The tortoise was unstoppable. Bob had dreamed all this once before. And it was happening just like in the dream. The tortoise would waddle up on top of him. He would feel its awful legs dragging across his skin, that rough, scaly texture. He would jerk his body, twist and writhe, but he couldn''t throw the tortoise off. It would tread ponderously along the bridge of his neck. It would scuttle onto his chin and gaze deep down into his eyes. And Bob would gaze back, would stare into those infinitely black spaces, those impenetrable depths, that ancient, chilling apathy. And then the tortoise would open its mouth¡ªand Bob would awaken. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. "No, no, not like that..." Bob was half here and half back in the dream. The tortoise was only inches away. Every waddle brought it nearer. But Bob couldn''t get away. The turtle''s magic kept him trapped there. Was this the end? Was this Bob''s end? Turtle food? "General, the drawbridge!" Bob''s came up into a side-plank/backwards-crab. His belly was hoisted skywards, as far away from those metal jaws as he could manage, and just in time, because the tortoise had stumbled forward, its beak yawning open, ready to gnash down. They stood there. The two of them. The tortoise was paused directly below Bob''s raised midriff. It deliberated. It uncoiled its long neck and tested the range. But the creature was only three inches tall and it couldn''t reach. Bob managed a sneering grin. To which the tortoise seemed to say: "very well, then we shall wait". Yes, this was a cruel tortoise. It could have attacked Bob''s feet. Or his arm. Or his head. It could have killed him then and there, but instead it fixated on his bellybutton. It understood that Bob was helpless. That Bob was weak and flabby and had skipped core days. Sweat started to trickle down Bob''s forehead. His muscles began to ache and then to burn. The tortoise waited. It waited smugly and confidently. It waited knowing that what goes up must come down. "George, it''s too late for me. Save yourself." Bob''s brain was slowly losing its long negotiations with Bob''s core. Somehow the muscle contingent didn''t seem convinced by the "we''re going to die" argument. Two decades of neglect and indentured servitude had fostered a strong and irrational anti-brain faction. Bob tried calling on the mud. Not as a tyrant, or even as a wizard, but simply as a friend in need. Mrs. Mud Sphere, if ever I stroked you on the head and called you sweet names, do me this favor. Save me, save me, please. Mrs. Mud Sphere, alas, was the type of woman who held a grudge. Nope, Bob was going down one way or another. Maybe he could crush the tortoise? A gravity-assisted, full-weight body slam. Yes, that would definitely work on the stone eating, high-defense monster. Proof by desperation. The strongest kind. "Count us down General." "Three." "Two." Ruff! There was a flash of gold. Bob made out a familiar snout; time seemed to slow as Bob''s mind tried to make sense of what was happening. That was George''s snout. Hello George''s snout. The snout arched upwards. The snout caught on something. A six-inch shelled something that went spinning into the air. The snout opened. And out of the snout came a rolling boom. Bob closed his eyes as wave after wave of heat and energy crashed into him. The air was burning. He tried to twist and hide, to protect his eyes. And the fused soil started to give. The heat was softening and melting it. He could make it. He strove against his bonds and... they broke. He rolled over and sausaged around. He was free. He was spitting and cursing, praying and whimpering, but he was free. A familiar nose prodded up against him, followed by the happy panting of a happy dog. Bob looked around him. There was a golden retriever, a good deal of smoke and a burnt-out turtle-shell husk. No body. No teeth. Bob needed a moment to play back what had just happened. Bob had been about to die. And then George had appeared. And then George had hooked the tortoise. And then George had fire-breathed the tortoise. And the fire breath had freed Bob from his bonds. Bob decided to confirm his interpretation with the dog. "George, did you just flip that tortoise into the air and then flamethrower it while airborne?" Ruff! "You''re a fucking monster. And I love you." Bob hugged the dog. It''s a glorious thing to have someone watching your back. Bob would have to do some special for the dog later. George had earned it. At least one of them kept a level head in times of crisis. But Bob was rattled. He was low-key traumatized. You don''t almost get eaten alive by a six-inch tortoise and just carry on with your day. Unfortunately, the system wasn''t about to grant Bob a two-hour timeout in which he could curl up in a ball and wish away the bad thoughts. Bob had to get the hell off this accursed hilltop, but he didn''t know what dangers would face him out in the wilderness and he wanted to be prepared. Bob filled his system shop cart with the bare necessities: A hiking pack, some plastic water bottles, a blanket, some extra nutrition packs (for emergencies), a first aid kit, a two-man tent, a small sheath for his system knife (yes he had forgotten he was carrying a knife), a set of clean clothes, a belt, and one pair of socks and shoes. To this list, he added a dozen "health patches". These seemed to be closest thing the system offered to health potions. You peeled off a plastic wrapping and slapped it on as near to the wound as you could. The description promised it worked on all sentient races. A claim that seemed highly suspect to Bob. Would it work on a hedgehog? He clicked through to checkout and stopped short. The total was only 6530 credits. That didn¡¯t make any sense. The water alone weighed in above one kilogram. The cost should be in the tens of thousands. Bob zoomed in on the price breakdown: "pylon shipping - 100 credits/kg". Now that changed everything. Bob''s whole soul was screaming at him to run for the hills, to pack up and keep running until the sun went down, but, but, the greedy part of his soul interjected, 100 credits per kg... Bob''s only real advantage was his deep pockets. He''d be mad to give up control of the pylon, wouldn''t he? Not to mention, he''d paid for the damn thing. What would happen when people learned about this? Bob swallowed. He didn''t have to think very hard to answer that one. This hill would become the focal point for global aggression and conquest. Its green grasses would be drenched in blood. Its soothing landscape turned into a graveyard of fallen hopefuls. Bob could stay. Bob could fight for what was his. Bob could step up and prove himself worthy of being the leader of this giant rock. Or, Bob could leave. He could prioritise his safety. He could be sensible for a change. That was the path to avoid ending up as turtle meat. So Bob, what''s it going to be? Fear or Greed? Chapter 34 - Mountain of Corpses Fear advised Bob to trek northward towards the great mountain forests. Anyone would have a hell of time tracking them through dense woodland. That would be the safest course of action. Fear had begged and pleaded. Fear had taken to whispering the word "tortoise" in his ear. Greed advised Bob to stay within the pylon''s range of influence. Pylon shipping was a miracle of system engineering. Something even amazon would envy. A hundred times cheaper folks. We''re not talking some token 15% discount. A hundred times. Greed had promised Bob a grand and glorious future. Bob was proud and a little conflicted to say that greed won out. That didn''t meant he''d thrown out all fear. No, fear continued on in an advisory role. Fear had told him he needed a secret base. Fear had led him to this little depression between three hills with good cover in all directions. Fear had persuaded him that "secret" meant "underground" and put a shovel in his hand. Fear had pointed him at the hillside and told him to dig. That was where he now stood, at the bottom of the little depression, shovel in hand, wiping away muddy streaks of sweat and looking disappointedly at his so-called tunnel. The enterprise had started marvelously. He''d found himself a nice starter hole. Clearly another creature had had the wit to see the attraction of the place. Some rabbit or badger had already prepared the ground. The hard part was done for him. He just had to widen the entry point. Bob had thrown himself into the task with unusual determination and energy. Thirty seconds later he''d descended to his baseline languid and complaining pace. It was surprisingly hard work when all was said and done. Dirt was heavier than you might expect. And there was so much of it to move. And it was hot work. You started to sweat. And it was dirty work. There was no way to prevent the soil from getting here, there and everywhere. Forty-five minutes and the hole''s was barely any wider than it had been at the beginning. Bob rounded on his Fear. This tunnel idea of yours is a complete bust. I''ll be at all night and most of tomorrow. Bob''s Fear had the discourtesy to talk back, claiming Bob was just being lazy and fatalistic, and just see how much the badger had managed. Bob sighed. Now if only he were a wizard, this would have be a right stitch. He could have had it all done in five minutes flat. He''d muddify the hole with some water and then levitate it all out. He''d even smooth the tunnel walls to make it homely and respectable. Dammit, he was a wizard. He reached out for the mud at the entrance where some of yesterday''s rainfall lay puddled. He summoned up the familiar, desired end state, mud floating in the air, and commanded the mud to obey. Well we all know nothing happened. Bob was annoyed at this further failure in magical mud craft. Bob was annoyed at the stupid tunnel. Bob was annoyed at this wretched shovel that had started giving him blisters. Bob swung the shovel as hard as he could at the tunnel entrance. The blow collided, the shovel shuddered painfully in Bob''s hand and he was forced to drop it. The tunnel was silent. Wait, the tunnel was trembling. Bob was knocked over and backwards in a cloud of black dust as the gravity of the hillside reasserted itself and the tunnel caved in. "Dammit all!" Bob surveyed the work of his hands. A rough pile of mixed soil and stones, together with a haze of dust that was only just beginning to settle. The tunnel was no more. Bob was a lot stronger than he looked, that or his amateur shoveling had structurally comprised the tunnel. On second thought, it was a good thing that they''d have never actually camped inside. Bob stood up and dusted himself off. "Well, nothing to it," Bob acted nonchalant, as though the past hour of mindless labor had not been proved utterly fruitless. No plan ever survived first impact with the enemy. Who was the enemy? The mud of course. ¡°George, what¡¯d you think about a tent? A tent would hit the spot nicely no?¡± The dog barked. ¡°You got it George. And I¡¯m only agreeing because you asked, mind.¡± Bob dragged the tent out of his pack and tried laying it out in a few different position. It wouldn''t be that obvious would it? Bob had purchased a bright blue, tall and spacious tent. Something comfortable and airy. He wanted to be able to stand up inside. Was Bob on holiday or trying to avoid detection here? He wondered whether the system accepted returns. No, no, it did not, just like the system that, face the consequences of your stupid decisions. He''d have to purchase himself another tent and this time one more suited to his current situation. But hang on a second, why was Bob even bothering with this right now? It was only late morning. What the hell was he putting up a tent for now? It would just make it easier for people to discover their camping spot. Bob instead purchased a camping chair. He put it together, sat down and leaned back. It was surprisingly comfortable given its price and portability. Bob leaned back. He was exhausted. He had been mugged by three''s company, been chased up and down hills, been psychologically scarred by a tortoise and been made to do manual labour. He deserved a little break. Nobody could possible deny Bob that. And he knew exactly what he wanted to do. A little litRPG binge would go long way towards curing his blues.
Quest: Sky''s the limit (Personal) Count to 1,001 out loudd without misisng a numper (max interval 2 seconds). Optional challenge: count backwards Reward: (hidden) Optional Reward: Jonny the Man - The Kiwi Warriors
It was a weird quest. Bob didn''t see the point. Nor did he understand why the system had suddenly got so sloppy as regards spelling and grammar. Bob didn''t care though. That optional reward was something worth sacrificing for. Bob prepared himself for the attempt. He took a long swig of water, gurgled it around a little bit, and spat it out. He followed that up with few small sips (wet the throat and all). Good, he was ready. A quest firmly within his level of power and skill. Bob had been counting since primary school. The whole shebang should only take 15 minutes and then he''d have his long-wished-for Jonny the Man copy. No time like the present: A thousand and one, a thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine. Bob started well, motivated and interested. This was easy. Bob was a counting machine, he was an abacus for hell''s sake. He steamed through the nine hundreds, the eight hundreds, the seven hundreds; he was the god of counting, start him going and he''d never stop. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. His momentum started to flag around the six hundreds. Six hundred and forty two, six hundred and forty one, six hundred and forty... There were so many numbers. It was like they were endless. Who came up with them all? Who made the numbers? The figures started to blur together in Bob''s mind. His thoughts wanted to drift, to wander, to play. The counting itself had become routine. It didn''t occupy enough brain cpu. His brain cylinders span wildly without biting into anything. He needed something to think about. And the system provided:
Grace Period ended; Happy Hunting.
What could that mean Bob wondered? But Bob was known for his iron concentration and priority management. Five hundred and fifty five, five hundred and fifty four, five hundred and fifty three... Bob felt his hand itch. No, he was focused. He would itch when he was done. Five hundred and thirty four, five hundred and thirty three, five hundred and thirty two... His hand was really itchy. He''d just scratch it. He could scratch and count. "What the..." Bob failed his quest. But he was worrying about that right now. He was worrying about the green thing wriggling up his arm. It was a butterfly, no, a caterpillar, something in between? The system helpfully annotated:
Raupenflieger (lvl 1)
George had also noticed the creature and was barking loudly to alert Bob to the situation which Bob was already fully aware of it. It was his hand after all. The monster was a finger-sized, green caterpillar, bulbous and cylindrical. So far so normal, except out of its back grew butterfly wings, really beautiful butterfly wings, a breathtaking, abstract pattern of red and black. Bob stared happily at the pretty wings. The creature started inching its way slowly up Bob''s arm. Bob suddenly felt a lot less well-inclined towards to the insect. He reacted instinctively, flicking his arm out in an attempt to catapult the creature away from him. The caterpillar was affected, but not in the way Bob might have wished. It lost its grip with the front of its body, but somehow managed to maintain contact with its back. It hung there, swinging wildly around, as Bob jumped up and danced around, trying to get the damn thing off him. The Raupenflieger fought valiantly on its part not to lose its tenuous grip. Why it didn''t just fly off with those pretty wings was quite beyond Bob? It reached a point where Bob''s inherent squeamishness was overcome by fear and desperation; Bob brought a flat hand down on top of the creature. The Raupenflieger exploded. Green pus flew everywhere. Bob''s hands and arms, the tip of his nose, a bit on his neck, everywhere unprotected by his cloak. "Disgusting..." He began wiping away the slime. And that was when the pus started to burn. Burn and itch. "Crap, crap..." Bob accelerated his cleaning efforts. It was too little, too late. Any skin that had come into contact with the pus was an angry, jarring red. It stung like the devil and yet was somehow incredibly itchy at the same time. But itching the sensitive, red skin was its own torture. Bob''s arm and hand were the worst affected. Bob fished out a water bottle and poured cold water over the arm. It didn''t help. No wonder the creature had been so utterly fearless. Who in their right mind would splatter such a creature? All that was left of the creature were the beautiful wings, paper thin with a powdery, sparkly look to them, floating on top of a puddle of green sludge. "George, no!" It was too late. The dog, ever curious and without fear, had decided to investigate the green puddle. George brought his nose a little too close to the strange liquid. Now the dog was whining and rubbing his nose with his paw. His bright red nose. "Dammit George. Why you gone and done that?" Bob was in a good deal of pain himself and not quite in the mood for doggish antics. Bob finally recovered himself enough to remember that money solves all problems. He quickly pulled up the system interface, offering a silent prayer of gratitude that he could manipulate it with his mind and didn''t have to use his swollen monstrosity of a hand. He picked out the first cream that was supposed to work on raupenflieger toxin. A tube appeared in the air and dropped down to the ground. Bob knelt down and picked it up: "Raupenflieger Squasher." Was the cream making fun of him? An enjoyable two minutes passed as Bob tried to leverage the cap off with his wrists. You''d think they make these things easier to access. Finally, the lid was off and he started liberally applying it to his hands, arms, nose, neck. Bob sighed in blissful relief. The cream''s effect was dramatic and immediate. "George, George, come here boy." George had curled up into a ball. He was whimpering quietly. It looked like he''d manage to transfer some of the acid to both paws and several other unreasonable places. The dog really didn''t learn, did he? Bob went over. "Hold still now." He dabbed a fat splotch of cream on the dog''s nose. George immediately tried to lick it off. "George, dah," Bob grabbed the dog''s mouth and held the jaw shut. There''s no way that cream would be good for a dog''s stomach. It didn''t seem toxic, but better safe than sorry. With his other hand, Bob applied cream to George''s paws and wherever else the dog had managed to spread the acid. Bob sat with the dog like this for five minutes letting the medicine work, before scrapping away any of the cream that hadn''t dissolved in to the skin. George was still bound to lick some of it off, but Bob could at least minimize the damage. Naturally, the moment Bob released George, the dog immediately started to lick his nose and then his paws and then every other spot Bob had spread the cream. "It''s your funeral..." Well now they knew what the grace period had been about: monsters. The Russian Tortoise had been a sentient. Earth based trap ability and shark denture companion object. That chimerical cater-fly, on the other hand, was clearly a monster. It had no ability to speak of and the system had annotated its name and level. So the system had given them twelve hours to prepare themselves before populating monsters across the earth. And now their time was up. Was Bob prepared for the monster invasion? No, Bob was not prepared. He was a magic-less, unfit human without combat experience. Maybe they could turtle up (poor choice of expression)? Bob eyed their position wearily. The slopes on either side were relatively steep. They would be a difficult approach. Behind them was a long gradual slope. This was the path Bob and George had descended by. However the path sort of rolled up and then down, giving poor visibility into the depression. You''d already have to know exactly where their camp was. You couldn''t stumble upon it that way. In front of them, however, was a narrow channel. Bob didn''t like the look of it. This evidently was where yesterday''s rainwater had drained away. It was narrow, but not narrow enough to prevent someone or something climbing up it. Bob could just imagine monsters wandering up the channel and attacking them in their sleep. If only he could block it off somehow... But was turtling really the right strategy? Even if the monsters didn''t find them, Chad, Rad and Lad probably would. Lad, at least, had seemed very confident in his ability to track down Bob. A confrontation was inevitable. And it wouldn''t just be three''s company, other "interested" parties would be looking for Bob Brown, Lord of Earth, and the little, consolation prize of 1,000,000 credits awarded to his murderer. No, Bob''s only real chance was to level up. Bob''s pulled up his status screen:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 1 (17%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,893,300 credits
Well that pretty much confirmed system''s level up mechanics. Those video game makers sure were prophetic. The more living things you kill the stronger you get. Sure, the truth can be a little dark. But we all know the way to the top is over a mountain of corpses. Before and after the system. Athletic competition, academic competition, university admissions, job hunting, for every winner there are scores of nameless defeated. Bob''s job was to avoid becoming one more of the nameless dead. It was a hard job. And it''d grow even harder if he couldn''t figure out some way to defend himself. Thankfully, Bob had an idea. A very capitalistic idea. He opened up the system shop and navigated to the categories page. There were mostly normal, boring departments: arts & crafts, automotive, baby, beauty, computers, books, music, ah here we go: weapons. That looked more promising. Chapter 35 - The Butcher’s Trusty Hammer Bob''s eyes lit up. What was wrong with him? Seeing a shop full of weapons of mass destruction shouldn''t make a person smile. And yet Bob was smiling. He suddenly liked his chances. The world is inherently biased towards those with money. Money has a gravity to it that warps the very fabric of human society. And if Bob had one thing, it was plenty of money. At that moment, Bob was gazing dreamily at the front page of the shop''s weapons categories, where the system''s special recommendations were laid out in ordered tiles. There were some really choice items here: Carol''s Mace of Eternal Death, the Butcher¡¯s Trusty Hammer, the Staff of Forlorn Hope, the list went on and on. A good number of the listings, most of the best ones, were marked with a little unique badge. Many were without price, instead designated as "to be auctioned." Bob focused in on the Staff of Forlorn Hope. He was a wizard. He needed a staff. It was a beautiful black, sleek thing with a misty white orb as a crown. It had dark, powerful wizard stamped all over it. Bob nodded to himself. He needed something that would shift up his image, something that would help people see past the mud and take him seriously. Let''s see the price here. Bob''s mouth fell open. "Three, million, credits..." That was the price of thirty system pylons. The whole system casino hadn''t held 5 million credits. Bob seriously doubted the combined fortunes of everybody on the planet (minus him) summed to that amount. And yet Bob could afford it. And the weapon was worth every penny. For one it was marked as indestructible and soul bound. For another it provided several abilities of its own: dishearten, despair and destroy, being some of the highlights (a friendly little thing wasn''t it). Each of them was absurdly powerful in its own right. The destroy spell looked like it was practically an insta-kill of anyone in their level bracket. Despair and dishearten both were fear abilities. One was an over-the-top, straight-to-the-bone fear that would have people crumbling down at your feet and begging for mercy. While the other was more insidious, completely undetectable, it just chipped away at your courage and self-confidence. It made you doubt yourself. Those weren''t exactly the abilities Bob would have chosen for himself. He preferred flashy, over-the-top magic. Magic that looked and felt like magic. Fireball being the ultimate example. Wasn''t fear a little boring? But there was no question the staff would turn Bob into the wizard-king, feared and hated by his fellow earthlings. And in his current situation, he could hardly afford to be picky. Bob had decided. He was going to buy it. He would become the Wizard of Forlorn Hope. He pressed down on the grey purchase box. Nothing happened. He pressed again. There was a faint disabled beep. Shouldn''t the purchase box be orange? There was a little red asterisk beside the greyed-out button. Bob focused in:
Rank Restriction - Minimum Rank B
Rank B? What rank was he again? Bob was currently rank E. He didn¡¯t quite understand how rank and level corresponded, but he did understand that there were a lot of letters between B and E. Bob wouldn''t be buying the staff any time soon. Bob sighed. No more Wizard of Forlorn Hope. Well fair enough, Bob was a reasonable man. He could admit that he might have set his sights a little high there. A 3 million credit staff right off the bat was probably a tad unfair to the other sentients on earth. It wouldn''t be sportsmanlike to have a insta-death spell. Nobody would even have a fighting chance. If the system let him purchase weapons of that calibre, life on earth would degrade into a pay-to-win proposition. Most lamentable in general terms, but somewhat disappointing to the man who probably had the most credits on the planet. "Well what about something more in line with my rank?" Bob didn¡¯t fancy using the system dagger. He hadn¡¯t enjoyed his experience slicing up the poor boar. He wanted something with a bit more range and maybe a little less blood. What about a gun? Guns were easy. Just point and shoot. Bob typed "gun" into the search bar and capped the price at ten thousand credits. Here we go:
Glock 17 Gen5 9mm Luger Semi-Automatic Pistol (Mana Signed) Quality: Common The Glock 17 Gen5 9mm Luger Semi-Automatic Pistol is a staple in the Glock family, renowned for its reliability, durability, and performance. This semi-automatic handgun is designed for professionals, enthusiasts, and self-defense with its superior ergonomics, unmatched accuracy, robustness, and high capacity. Bullets fired from the handgun are automatically infused with the mana signature of the wielder.
The system shop really did sell everything. This looked perfect for a low-level beginner gunman and only 6980 credits. Bob felt safer already. He tried to move to checkout and was greeted with the familiar, ugly phrase:
Rank Restriction - Minimum Rank D This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"We humans invented the damn thing and now you turn around and tell us that it''s too strong for our good. I mean, well, thinking on the point, you might be right." Guns sure do make killing easy. That was after all why Bob had wanted to purchase one. "But then you should have taken the things away from us years ago, why''d you let us have those world wars and stuff?" "Fine, fine," Bob got the message. He would have to really tone down his ambitions. Let''s try for a simple staff. He adjusted his search term and picked the most benign option he could find: Reinforced Oak Staff (Mana Signed). An oak core, shod with steel cap and pointed foot. Perfect for beating back low level enemies. Only 2880 credits. But once again his designs were blocked by blatant rankism: "Minimum Rank D" It wasn''t to be believed. This was a level of technology you could have found on earth. Hell it was just a hunk of wood with a few pieces of metal stuck to it. An old man could have walked around with such a staff and hardly drawn a second glance. "Where do you get off telling me I¡¯m too low a rank to be carrying around a glorified stick?" Bob pressed the little funnel beside the search bar, tracked down the rank filter and set it to E. The screen reloaded and Bob was greeted with an empty list. Bad news. Rank E was obviously something akin to childhood in the system interverse, given that the system didn¡¯t think there existed a single weapon it could in good conscience sell to us rank E sods. How that squared with giving George the ability to absolutely incinerate anything and anyone was beyond Bob¡¯s comprehension. Humanity cannot penetrate heaven¡¯s intentions. Guess Bob would have to sharpen his knife work. He''d purchased a sheath for his knife and had it strapped securely around his shoulder. Let''s see what old Bob could do. He imagined an enemy approaching. He would... No, too vague. It was too vague. He closed his eyes. Visualize Bob. The image of a boar floated up. Ah my old enemy, Grumpy-nose, I''ve missed you. Bob imagined the boar twenty paces ahead of him. The boar had caught sight of him. The boar was starting to charge. In a single, dynamic movement, Bob grasped the knife, slid it out, stepped outside the boar''s reach and... "What, how?" The dagger was lying on the ground. When had he dropped the thing? He hadn''t. He swore he hadn''t. The dagger had broken free of its grip and thrown itself on the ground. It had betrayed him. "Betrayer!" The imaginary boar turned and ran Bob down. Bob had lost. Bob had lost even in imaginary combat against an imaginary enemy he''d already defeated once. Maybe he should leave out some milk and cookies for Death. Because he was expecting a call from the Reaper any time now. No, Bob was not made for fighting at close combat, he concluded as he picked up the knife and resheathed it. And yet the knife was his only weapon. Would he really venture out there into the wildness with its monsters and Bob-hunting sentients with just this little thing? Magic. Magic was the only answer. Bob had to figure out how to get his mud magic working. But he''d already tried everything. It didn''t work. He wasn''t a wizard. He was a 24 year old, junior QA developer, massively out of his depth in a post-system-apocalypse world. All true. But had he really tried everything? Had he QA tried everything? Coming at the problem with zero assumptions and just mindlessly trying out every conceivable interaction and combination. Attacking the problem like he wanted to break the thing, delighting in obscure, absolutely impracticable, impossible bugs that no real user in their right mind would ever stumble upon. After all this, at the end of the world as we know it, Bob was still going to have to go to work. "Fine. I''ll do it." This was going to be boring, time-consuming and look very very stupid. Bob was just glad there was nobody here to watch. First things first, he''d have to comb through the acceptance criteria. Bob pulled up the skill description:
Skill: Mud Manipulation (Authority) Feel the Mud, Young Puddler. Effect: Grants unbounded authority over all forms of mud
He''d read it half a dozen times already, but he''d never deep-dived into the wording. "Grants unbounded authority over all forms of mud." The key word there was "authority." And see the way the word was bracketed beside the skill name, like "authority" was a type of skill. It definitely referred to something technical and concrete. What did authority mean? Where was a dictionary when one needed one? By the king''s authority. That is beyond my authority. An authority figure. Authority... Authority meant the power to do something, to make decisions or give orders, didn''t it? But wasn''t that exactly what Bob had tried to do? Bob had tried to order the mud to float up. And we all knew how that had ended. A king commanding his subjects obviously did not model well on to Bob''s situation. Bob scratched his head. What other senses of authority were there? Authority, authority, authority... Bob''s mind jumped to computers. Work shapes the mind they say. In an IT context, authority meant something like permission. The level of access or control a user was given. You have the authority to edit these files or view this document. Now that didn''t give you some magical control over the object. It just gave you permission. Where the system would block another person, it would allow Bob to take action. Bob liked this interpretation. It seemed a lot more sensible than him ordering mud around like some mud tyrant. Mud was not a sentient force. It was an inanimate mixture of water and soil. The idea of him giving verbal or even visual commands to an inanimate object and it somehow obeying him was highly implausible. No Bob had been given permission. Permission to do what? Judging from the wording of the skill, to manipulate mud. Yes, that''s all very good, but how? Bob''s inquiry dead-ended here. Still he felt like he was on the right track. Bob gave the message another reread. Maybe they were more clues. That description bothered him: "Feel the Mud, Young Puddler." Obviously, the line was a bad joke, although one that implied surprising cultural awareness from the system. But it was more than just a bad joke. Bob mustn''t underestimate the system''s cunning. "Feel the Mud." What if Bob interpreted that literally? The system was telling Bob that he had some innate ability to sense out mud and advising him to begin by training that. Challenge accepted. It was as good a place to start as any. First objective on the road to becoming an arch-mage: Feel the Mud. Chapter 36 - MQA Now Bob had already tried to sense the mud. He had tried and failed. Well slow down there Bob. That wasn''t exactly true, was it? Quality Assurance is all about the details. Which order you click the buttons, what you do before and after, the exact user, machine, browser you are on. Everything potentially matters. Magical Quality Assurance (MQA) ought to hold itself to the same standard. Let''s keep everything nice, clear and factual. What had Bob tried? Steps to reproduce: And what were the results? Unclear... Explain. Well, truth be told, Bob had kinda thought he had felt some kind of connection to the mud. Of course, everything was, so to speak, muddied by the fact that he was holding the mud in his hand. There was a fair chance he had just been projecting this special "mud sense" on top of his tactile sensations and his knowledge that he was actually holding a ball of mud. Inconclusive, in a word. What else had Bob tried? Steps to reproduce: And what were the results? Definitive. Bob had not been able to feel the mud ball. He hadn''t felt a damn thing. No, wait¡ªit''s the small incongruities that lead you to the truth. He had felt something or thought he did anyway. It just hadn''t come from the direction of the mud ball. Instead he''d felt something surrounding him, something that flowed and shifted. Of course, he''d never been able to find that thing, which had basically undermined any faith he had in his so-called "feelings." Men need to learn to take their feelings more seriously. "Bob, I propose we start by assuming all of your "feelings" were not imagined and admit them into the record as evidence." "But Bob, that seems like highly wishful thinking." "True, Bob, but how effective has your current approach been? " "Well Bob, now that you ask... it''s complicated... there are moving parts, wheels within wheels you might say." "Exactly Bob, literally zilch. I propose we assay my approach." "Very well Bob, I hope you know what you''re doing." "Bob, I hope we know what we''re doing. " Accepting Bob''s feelings as fact, Bob was able to draw three conclusions. Conclusion number one: Bob was able to sense the mud ball when it was in his hand. Conclusion number two: Bob could not feel the mud ball from a few feet away. And conclusion number three: Bob was able to sense some other aura/energy/object aside from the mud ball. Reproducibility is the cornerstone of MQA. How is the wizard supposed to debug the spell if he can''t even reproduce it? He can''t. Bob would need to start by confirming those conclusions. He could try repeating the above steps exactly as they were, but Bob was an iterator. You''re supposed to do better the second time you face the same problem. And Bob had an idea about how to do better. The advantages of this adjustment were obvious. It was designed to help Bob isolate his mud-sense. The human hand is one of nature''s greatest sensory devices. Your eyes can only parse visible light. Your ears only interpret sound waves. But your hands, your hands can see temperature, texture; they can judge weight and shape; they can feel wetness or dryness, sense vibrations and gauge pressure resistance. This storm of information would drain out any slight trickle of data from Bob''s mud perception. Hence the pebble. The pebble, especially if chosen well (Bob actually changed pebbles to something a little lighter and tried wetting the stone), would give comparable sensory input to the mud ball. The mind is infinitely superior at picking out differences than at generic analysis. If he could just compare sensory streams for pebble and mud, any major differences would have to be attributable to a special "mud sense." It took Bob a while to normalize the sensory input. To pair off the weights and textures and temperatures. Five minutes went by as Bob honed in on the sensory inputs coming from the two objects. Another three minutes passed before Bob thought he found the corner of a difference. He didn''t move. He didn''t celebrate or break concentration. MQA was no frivolous enterprise and wouldn''t permit such looseness. No Bob sat with the feeling. He stroked the feeling. He smelled it and tasted it. He wallowed in it. It was a difficult thing to describe. Like picking out one scent in a field of many flowers. The information from his hands and the brain''s deep familiarity with its structure and interpretation blunted his pure mud perception. And yet if he had to put the sensation into words, he might have said that he felt closer to the mud. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. You get a curious sensation when you touch one part of your body to another. You feel the contact in two different places at the same time. And your mind sort of blurs those feelings together into one combined sensation. Bob received a similar impression from the mud. He wasn''t just feeling the mud through his own hand, he seemed to be feeling his own hand through the mud at the same time. The effect was subtle. Extremely so. It was only the absence of comparable feedback from the pebble that gave Bob any confidence in his assertion. Without that control, Bob probably would have shook his head and dismissed the whole thing as him simply "feeling funny." But Bob did have his control and was correspondingly confident in his conclusion. The system hadn''t deceived him. Young Puddler Bob could feel the mud. And he hadn''t needed any hidden spell chants or dramatic hand gestures. He could sense the mud entirely with his mind. Conclusion number one: tick. MQA''s first victory. Time to take up conclusion two. Could Bob sense the mud ball at a distance? Here again Bob would iterate. He''d assume nothing. He wouldn''t let himself be swayed by dramatic anime portrayals. He would start small, very small, as small as he could manage. He sketched up a testing plan: A natural progression on his first experiment. Bob had established that he could "sense" mud when in direct contact with it. But if his previous, less formal experience was to be trusted, he couldn''t sense the mud from a few feet away. Time to figure out if it was a problem of distance or capacity. In this variation, Bob would have no direct skin contact with either pebble or mud ball. Instead a mere 0.1 millimeter thick piece of paper would separate his hand from the target. If he could sense mud at range, he would surely be able to sense the mud ball resting on top of the paper. Moment of truth. Bob focused in on his mud sense. Nothing happened immediately. But that didn''t worry Bob. He sat there for ten full minutes. He didn''t rush. Some bugs were all timing. You had to wait for exactly the right moment, and then strike. Except the right moment never came. Ten minutes of deep focus, trying to reach out and connect with the imperially calm ball of mud, and yet Bob couldn''t feel a thing. The mental silence was absolute. If Bob hadn''t known beforehand, he wouldn''t have been able to tell you what was sitting on top of the paper: mud, a stone, a ball of clay, a water balloon. Just to make sure, Bob removed the paper and let his hand touch the mud. There it was: the old sensation. He found it almost immediately, that double, echoed sensation like he was touching his own skin. He put the paper back, clinging onto that feeling, but he couldn''t find it. One measly sheet of paper completely shut out his mud sense. He persisted for a few more minutes more out of stubbornness than hope, but Bob found out the hard way that the truth doesn''t change the longer we wait for it. "Dammit all." It was maddening. How underwhelming of an ability. Bob the magician: "Gather around children. I''ll show you some real magic. See this ball of mud. Now when I place this ball of mud right here on my hand. Watch closely now. I can... feel it." The children did not look impressed. "No, no, you don''t understand I can feel the mud without using my hand." "Take off your hand then." "Ah... No, it''s complicated, I need my hand, but I don''t need my hand." "He''s boring." Nobody appreciates real magic. "Bob, get a hold of yourself. Are you not a proud and noble member of the order of MQA? There is still much to be tested." "I apologize to the noble order of the MQA." Yes, perhaps the paper was blocking his mud sense. A millimeter of opaque substance was more than enough to block out all visible light and plunge the world into darkness. This hypothesis was easily testable. Bob would put the mud ball on the ground and hold his hand as close as he could without touching. The attempt was quickly made and any hope was quickly dashed. Nope, even half a millimeter of empty air was a dark curtain over his mud eyes and he couldn''t sense a thing. Grand conclusion: Bob could only sense mud when it was directly touching his hand. Talk about a useless power. Conclusion one: tick. He could sense mud. Conclusion two: tick. He couldn''t sense mud at a distance. What about conclusion three: could Bob sense something other than the mud ball? He quickly recreated the original experiment. He minimized all his external senses and focused on the space around. Thirty seconds of quiet contemplation later and he found what he was looking for. There was something there... It was a new sense for Bob and he felt like a bumbling child. The information was confusing and disordered; his mind didn''t know what to do with it, how to turn that raw data into a picture of the world. It actually started to make Bob''s head hurt a little, but he persisted and did his best to piece out his impressions. There was something around him. It wasn''t static like a shell or the walls of a room. He got the impression it was swaying softly. And then, but it was so hard to make anything out clearly, he might have said he felt internal currents. Movement within the energy or object. Almost like the winds in the sky. He sat with it. Trying to shape out the information. And he realized that it wasn''t uniform. It didn''t surround him like a haze. Instead it was concentrated in some places and entirely absent in others. For example, he couldn''t sense anything around his head or at his hands and feet. And yet the signal around the back of his neck was particularly strong. Bob opened his eyes and quickly looked behind him. As though he might catch the sensation red-handed. Of course, there was nothing and nobody there. He squinted at the air and clicked his tongue. He''d definitely felt something. He still had the aftermath of a faint headache to prove it. He swiped a hand at the space behind him. Maybe there was an invisible presence, but his hand completed its motion without interference. "Don''t tell me I''m haunted." He sniffed around his shoulder. It all just smelled like mud to him. Chapter 37 - Scaled Dreams Bob was on to something. He didn''t know what it was, or whether it had any combat utility (that was after all the point of this MQA session), but he was on to something. When Bob closed his eyes and focused on the space around him, he received a curious feedback. He could feel something out there. Bob could say definitively that he''d never felt anything like it before the system integration. It had to be connected with his new powers, with his magic. And hopefully it would turn out to be something wildly powerful that would solve all of Bob''s problems and require low to zero effort. Bob''s dreams of high-level, pure mud manipulation had crashed and burned after all. Bob didn''t have any other baskets. He was betting all the eggs. Still, he wished he could somehow get a clearer picture of the energy field. It was so vague and cloudy, impossible to unravel and examine. Was there anything he could do to sharpen his senses? He looked down at his brown, wizard''s cloak. "Maybe this old thing is getting in the way and blocking my signal." It was an easy thing to test. Bob quickly derobed and was struck by a sudden wave of weakness. He swayed in place. He felt tired. His vision flickered a little. He steadied himself against the camp chair and waited for the moment to pass. What had just happened? As soon as he''d taken off the cloak... Ah, the mud monster bonus. He pulled up the achievement:
Achievement: Mud Monster More mud than man Achieve 100% (rounded) mud coverage of total body surface area. Effect: A minor percentage bonus to base stats when covered in mud
That is always the way isn''t it? You don''t feel the gains until they are taken away from you. He hadn''t noticed how much lighter and quicker he''d felt. But now every movement felt sluggish and unnaturally slow. His mental processing speed seemed to have fallen by half. Wow, so he''d been even weaker and stupider than this before the initiation. Nothing like a charitable thought. "Well let''s get this over with then." Bob folded up the cloak and sat down a little distance away. It took him a bit longer to reach the quiet, meditative state necessary to perceive the supposed energy field (he missed mud monster already). And when he found the quiet place, the sensation had... disappeared. Bob wrinkled his brow and rubbed his chin. Maybe that bonus had a bigger effect than Bob had initially guessed. Did you have to be beyond some threshold in intelligence or wisdom to see the energy? Bob tried again, sitting longer than before, pushing his perception further and further, until he found something... There was a concentration of the energy somewhere behind him. Had it been there the whole time? He''d never really checked. Bob carefully rose to his feet, eyes still closed. He edged towards the energy source, keeping all of his attention on his inner sense. The energy was low down, pooled on the ground in front of him. He reached out for it and his hand made contact. What? He''d been expecting his hand to pass right through. And yet the energy was soft and smooth. He ran his fingers through it and he saw the energy shift and respond. He opened his eyes and there it was. "I''m such an idiot sometimes," Bob shook his head and sighed to himself. In his hand was the familiar brown cloak, the mantle of the mud magician. Bob swept the cloak up on himself and relaxed as the warmth of system-bestowed strength and intelligence flowed into him. He''d been sensing his cloak this whole time. It was blindly obvious when he stopped to think about it. An energy field that "surrounded" him. Something that swayed and flowed "like cloth". Mysteriously absent from "his face and hands and feet." Well as long as we end up at the truth...
Companion Object: The Mud Magician''s Mantle A cloak of woven, living mud. Effect: Equipping the cloak counts as covering the entire body with mud
Another classically understated and cryptic system description. Would it really hurt the heavens to be a little more helpful and detailed in their explanations? One expects most world religions could really get behind such an attitude. We all just want something to agree on. The mantle of the mud magician. He rubbed it between his fingers and it felt like cloth, warm and easy on the skin. But what had the description said: "woven of living mud". This cloak too was mud. Bob had remembered the line; he had known the fact in his head, but a part of him hadn¡¯t believed it. The fundamental properties of his element were entirely altered. Where was its wet, slimy character, its seeping, half-liquid consistency? Was a thing still itself when stripped of all the attributes that made it that thing? A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The cloak was a masterwork, what else could Bob say. He played the material through his fingers, letting it flow through and fall down. Would he one day reach such heights, would he one day be able to craft such a mantle? Something to aspire to. Something for Bob Magus, for Bob the Wandering Sage. For now though, Bob would have been happy if he could have just levitated a mud ball off the ground for half a second. Divine mud artistry could wait. We scale our dreams to ourselves. But if the cloak was made of mud, Bob should be able to feel it through his mud sense. And indeed he could. Indeed he''d been sensing the cloak the whole time. He''d just long gotten used to the double feedback sensation and never considered it particularly important. When he drilled into the feeling, it was obvious at once that his mud sense was behind the sensation. However, that alone was not explanation enough. Bob, sitting all the way over here, had been able to sense the cloak, all the way over there. There had been at least five feet of distance between himself and the cloak. And yet, he had, without fail, with his eyes closed no less, picked out the cloak''s mud signature and navigated to it. His paper experiment had demonstrated (most dishearteningly) that his mud sense could only sense things he was in direct contact with. He couldn''t sense mud at a distance and yet he could sense his cloak at a distance. How was Bob supposed to square this triangle? Bob''s cloak must be special somehow. The system had described it as "living mud". Maybe that allowed the mud cloak to contact him. Or maybe his mud sense could perceive living mud more clearly, like the way a bright light can be seen over vast distances. Or perhaps it was because the cloak was his companion object. Maybe everybody was able to sense their companion objects. Companion objects might work something like soulbound items. There was a lot going for that idea. For one, his mud cloak was plainly not some random object. It was custom made to synergise with his achievement and abilities. It was on theme. Even if another could somehow utilize the cloak, the object would be practically worthless to them. No, the mud cloak existed just for Bob. For another, Bob guessed companion objects disappeared on their owner''s death. Rad, Chad and Lad had definitely not been carrying fifteen sentients'' worth of companion objects. Since companion objects were all potentially extremely powerful, there''s no way they simply left them behind. The objects themselves must have disappeared. Conclusion: companion objects were intimately linked to their owner. So it would make sense if their owner could somehow perceive them even at a distance. Now if only he had another sentient he could ask on the topic... Bob gave George a sharp look. The dog was chewing on a stick. Wait a moment. That stick. The same one George had given Bob twice now. How was the dog pulling that off? George had definitely not had the stick on him when they arrived at camp. Bob snuck over. George was too busy viciously chewing on the hard object to notice. Bob came up behind the dog and flicked open his red satchel. "Aha!" Bob''s dramatic interjection of discovery soon faded into a disappointed oh... The satchel was completely empty. George continued chewing unconcernedly. "I''ll get you one of these days..." Bob mumbled to himself. No, George was not going to provide Bob with any insight on the topic. Intelligible conversation on complex topics was beyond George''s capacity. Bob sat down to puzzle over the question on his lonesome. It only took a few minutes for Bob to decide he wasn''t going to discover anything further. Why questions are notoriously difficult to answer satisfactorily. And MQA didn''t care about whys. That was for spell engineers and magic developers to figure out. MQA cared about the how and the what. And Bob had answered them both. Bob could sense the mud cloak at a distance. And if Bob could sense the cloak, and the cloak was made of mud, Bob ought to have power over the cloak no? Mud Magician Take 2. Bob let his eyes sink shut and felt out for the cloak. It was easy. It was stupidly easy. The cloak was right there. It shone loudly in his mind''s eyes. It wasn¡¯t just that he knew what he was looking for. There was more to it than that. The cloak itself was involved. It felt closer, more receptive, almost like it was aware of his gaze, like it saw him looking. No ordinary mud ball had given him comparable impressions. He''d connected to them sure. He felt inside them and through them. But they''d felt like stone statutes, silent and still, unliving and unresponsive. But the cloak, the cloak was listening, waiting for him to speak, to ask. And so he did, imagining the cloak¡¯s hood sweeping up and coming over his head. What the¡­ Bob almost fell over as something attacked him from behind. He twisted, trying to get eyes on the attacker, fumbling for a weapon, but¡­ there was nothing there. Bob wiped himself off and sat himself back down. So much for self-confidence. So much for self-belief. He really hadn¡¯t thought he had a chance in hell had he? A lifetime of disappointment leaves a stamp on the soul, doesn''t it? But hold your horses, there, hold your horses. Bob had just cast magic hadn''t he? He''d just done the impossible? He imagined the cloak''s hook swinging up and it had happened. "I''m a magician," he shouted. A little too loudly if George''s startled reaction was anything to go by. But Bob was just getting started. Bob jumped to his feet and started fist pumping aggressively. Bob had kept a stiff upper lip, but the truth was it had been eating away at him. For Bob alone to have no magical powers... It had been beyond cruel. And if he hadn''t had George there to look after and a stubborn, defiant streak that made him unwilling to show weakness in front of the system, he''d probably have had to spend a good amount of time sulking in his bathroom. Now he had joined the magical party. All praise to the society of MQA. MQA for life! Bob was a bona fide magician. Bob was a wizard. Bob reached out for the cloak again. He kept his mind on the intangible, invisible connection between himself and the cloth. He wanted to do something dramatic, something irrefutably magically, something a wizard would do. Bob cast his features into a steely, unflinching expression and suddenly turned to the side, twisting his body as his cloak started to flicker up about him¡ªonly to lose will half-way through and peter out. Shucks...The cloak had been supposed to billow up behind him in great rippling waves like a enormous gust had blown through. Obviously that hadn''t happened. It had looked more like the cloak had tripped over something and barely kept its footing. Bob frowned at the cloak. They''d have to work on that. Time for a little magic practice. Chapter 38 - The Grand Laws Of Magic Bob did work on his magic. He worked on it with childish enthusiasm and a broad, face-eating grin. But magic did not work with Bob. It toyed with him and mocked him and laughed at his good-hearted striving. The cloak kept losing power half way through, or just straight up ignoring him. The desired complex, billowing motion proved quite beyond Bob and he had to fall back to simpler, more pedestrian directives. But Bob was never discouraged. He''d already made more progress in the last thirty minutes than he had the whole first half of the day. More slow progress. But progress is progress. Three hours later, Bob collapsed down onto the mud. He painstakingly pulled himself up into a cross-legged position. He felt drained. He was bone-tired though he''d barely moved for the past hour. Magic didn''t come for free. The power had come from somewhere, somewhere inside Bob and he''d drained himself dry with the sustained practice. He threw his arms back and looked up to the sky. Magic is a ruthless mistress, he mused to himself. He cursed generations of video-game developers whose only purpose seemed to have been to instil in him bad instincts and unreasonable expectations. Magic (at least Bob''s magic) was not a "press a button and something happens" affair. That kind of passive, self-indulgent thinking would get you nowhere. Magic would grin maliciously down at you as she sabotaged attempt after attempt. No, Magic was a lot more complicated and difficult. Magic demanded study and patience and dedication. You couldn''t get away with two-timing the woman. And so, in the spirit of MQA, Bob had been very systematic, very fine-instruments and magnifying glasses. Yes he might have spent five minutes messing around with showy, crowd-pleasing attempts that had all failed quietly, but that''s just the price of being human. After that, Bob had rolled up his sleeves and gotten work. Experiment after experiment after experiment, all designed to tease out the boundaries on what he could and what he couldn''t do. Now Bob sat and reviewed his experiences. The time had come. The progression of ages had led to this moment, as Bob, sitting in a patch of mud, began to frame his grand laws of magic. He grabbed up the pad of paper lying nearby and started scribbling. Framing his laws took a long time and involved much scratching and discontented mumbling, "not grand enough, not grand enough... We can''t have "Grand Laws of Magic" without an essential mystic, incomprehensible ring to them can we?" Was Bob wasting time here? Perhaps, perhaps not. Which do you judge first, a man''s mind or his clothes? He finished the final law with a flourish of his pencil and nodded solemnly to himself. "Ahem," Bob cleared his throat. "Ahem," Bob cleared his throat a little louder. When a third volley failed to garner the desired reaction, Bob dropped all subtlety and glared at the dog. George was examining his paw, licking it in a lazy, contented way. "George, are you listening?" The dog had not been listening. "George, pay attention now please." The dog visibly yawned, but he did indulge Bob, looking over to see what stupid thing his master would do next. Bob, satisfied that the dog was given due attention, rose to his feet, folded his hands behind his back and began to lecture. "At the earnest request of the magical academy and the assembled mages of the honorable society of magic, I will present the findings of my long and legendary study of magical principles. These principles, which I shall presently present, are the product of years of magical research and naturally I can''t expound on them at their proper depth or complexity in the allotted time. Think of this as a taste of the secrets of advanced sorcery. Very well, I shall present to you the Three Grand Laws Of Magic, ahem, ahem... Now before I present the Three Grand Laws, I think it will be proper and fitting to first present the Grand Axiom. The Three Grand Laws may all be derived from the Grand Axiom. It is fitting therefore that we begin with the Grand Axiom. Very well, I shall present to you the Grand Axiom, ahem, ahem... The Grand Axiom: Magic is bounded by the magician. Yes, yes, settle down now. Rarely do we mages discuss our arcane arts so openly. But at the earnest request of the magical academy and the assembled mages of the honorable society of magic, I have agreed to present my findings. Now, I expect that, to the learned company assembled here, the finest of those who pursue the mystic arts, the axiom is self-explanatory and needs no further comment. I will therefore proceed at once to The Grand Laws. What? You had a question. Already? Very well then, please... Ah, The Grand Axiom is not self-evident to you. May I ask your name? Prudence Wobblewand. Hm... never heard of the Wobblewand family. Are you someone''s apprentice or something? This lecture might be beyond your level. I recommend "Elementary Charms for Slow Learners." It''s just down the hall. Now, as I was saying, I will therefore proceed at once to The Grand Laws. Magic''s First Law: The Conceivability Paradigm Magic is limited by the imaginative capacity of the mage. A mage cannot achieve an effect he does not understand. The law applies both in aggregate and at every stage of a spell. Remember that spells are typically defined only by their final effect. And it is often conveniently forgotten that any spell is composed of numerous, small operations. However, each of the aforesaid operations must be within the conception of the magician for the magic to succeed. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. I will give you an example from my own field of study. No doubt my name precedes me, but for those who do not know, I am a mud magician, a master of the noble art of mud manipulation. Settle down. Settle down. Yes, it is one of the more rarefied and respected magical disciplines. Now suppose I were to desire to rotate a sphere of mud in my hand. I would have to understand the proper method of rotation and capture said method within my spell conception. And the end result upon the sphere would be neither more nor less than the direct consequence of my chosen method. For example, imagine in my simplicity, I were to only apply a rotational force to one side of the sphere. Don''t laugh. Of course I know no-one among this company could make such a beginner''s mistake. Meditate upon it as a thought experiment. Almost inevitably there will be some accidental, translational force applied to the sphere and I shall observe it beginning to drift off towards the side. The point is that magic is blind to my intention. Or rephrasing the point, magic sees only the method. Magic is bounded by the magician. It will never do more or less than you command. The magician must understand exactly how he shall achieve his desired effect and express that method through his spell. If for example, I desired to convert a ball of mud into a piece of garlic bread, would I be able to? Now that idea itself is not inconceivable. I have as a point of fact conceived of it. But have I? Yes and no. I have conceived of its beginning and ending, its start state and end state. A ball of mud in my hand and then a moment later a piece of garlic bread. However, I have no understanding of the process by which I could convert one into the other. I cannot conceive of the steps needed to transform mud into garlic bread. And hence, unfortunately, the magic is beyond me. Magic''s Second Law: The Locality Principle In a manner of thinking, the second law is the most elementary. It has its counterpart in classical mechanics. There can be no action at a distance. The magician can only influence those things he can directly interact with. "Directly interact with" is a loaded and deliberately ambiguous term. It includes the mundane sense of touch, but also any other inherent connection such at that between a magician and his companion object, and perhaps even created, temporary connections. Is this not, you might ask, merely a restatement of the first law? The magician cannot conceive of a way to influence things at a distance and therefore cannot influence them. Bravo. I am glad you are all following so closely. Especially you, Miss. Wobblewand, who I notice has not taken my advice to look up Elementary Charms. Naturally I had not overlooked the point and I would do injustice not to acknowledge a certain overlap between the two laws. However, there is an important distinction. The magician does not need to understand the connection as long as said connection exists. In other words, the magic itself can navigate to a correctly identified target. Who among you understands the way you are bonded with your companion object? And yet if you have the necessary authority, can you not influence said companion object at arbitrary distances? Yes, you might need to focus on the connection, but do you actually have any concrete understanding about how you are acting over a distance? No, you do not. This is in stark contrast to the way magic is completely blind to your ultimate end intention and can only slavishly follow the path laid out before it. To restate the law in more practical terms, a magician must connect with an object via his magical senses before he can manipulate it. He must definitively and unambiguously identify the target of his spell, the object it acts upon. And if this connection is lost or broken before the spell is completed, the magic will cease mid-effect. However, he does not need to understand how this connection exists or functions. Magic''s Third Law: The Arcane Ledger My esteemed company, it is a sad truth of the world that nothing is without cost. Even magic is no exception. The effects of magic are paid for by the magician who wields it. Following the practice of our ancestors, I will call this energy: mana. Its source, production and rules remain mysterious to the magical community. However, it is clearly a finite though replenishable resource. I can only cast so many spells before I am exhausted and must desist from spellcraft. And yet after a few hours, my mana stock is magically replenished and I can once more cast spells. To summarize the three laws in layman''s speech: first you must be able to conceive of how and what you want the object to do; second you must be able to connect to the object; and third you must have sufficient mana to power that action. And now as a special treat and to round off the lecture, I will give you a demonstration of high-level magic. Be warned against attempting this at home. Here is a mud ball I prepared in advance. I set it on my open palm so. Now everybody watch closely. You there at the back. Please attend to the lecture. George, dammit, wake up. Good. Now watch closely." Here Bob Magus was given a seminal lecture, a historic dissertation on the grand laws of magic and the stupid dog had fallen asleep. But Bob didn''t have time to worry about that now. He was less than confident in the demonstration he had planned and to flounder in front of all of these great witches and wizards; he snuck a glance at the empty meadow. The pressure was palpable. Bob concentrated on the mud. He closed his eyes and let his awareness drift inside the mud. He walked through what he wanted the mud to do. It was a simple, basic maneuver. A balanced force would slowly propel the ball up a few inches and then gravity would bring it back down to his hand. He''d successfully executed it a number of times in practice. Now! He willed the invisible force into the mud; he felt it begin to move¡ªwe have lift off and splat! Bob opened his eyes. Mud was dripping down his face. "Ah now that can sometimes happen." He''d been a tad nervous after all. He managed a sheepish grin and looked out over his imagined audience. Boo, someone called out in a low voice. Miss. Wobblewand no doubt, Bob ground his teeth. Boo, Boo. The call was taken up and passed around. So much for the respect and adoration of his magical peers... Chapter 39 - A cautionary tale Bob''s high-minded and revolutionary lecture on the grand laws of magic was not properly appreciated by his magical peers. Baser minds are quickly distracted by perceived failure and throw out a man''s ideas with the man himself. If the assembled mages had been a little more charitable, they might have seen that the "splattering incident" was, if anything, even more instructive than the original demonstration. After all, it was nothing more nor less than the natural consequences of magic''s three laws applied mercilessly and indiscriminately. Like all good laws of nature, the laws of magic had blatantly ignored Bob''s intentions and robotically enacted their principles. It was not a simple matter of over-applying mana, though the ignorant might be forgiven for thinking so. Remember the first law: the conceivability principle. The magician sets out the method, the how of magic, and magic blindly obeys. Mana is just the fuel. It is taken as needed and expended to execute the spell design. Bob had actually made a point of attempting to intentionally overcharge a spell. The result was a more expensive spell that did the same thing. In other words, any excess mana was just wasted, leeched back into the atmosphere most likely. No, Bob had blundered in the design phase. Bob''s conception of the necessary force to propel the mud a couple inches in the air had been, well let''s say, over-generous. It was hard to judge these things. Bob didn''t yet have the instinctive feel that let humans judge complicated forces and angles without thinking. And the spell had executed his design perfectly, choosing to disregard any discrepancy between what he had wanted to happen and what would actually happen. And even that initial error might not have proved fatal. Now if, for example, it had been his mud cloak, to which Bob possessed an inherent, no-latency connection, Bob might have been able to curb his enthusiasm through a second, slowing spell. But unfortunately the target object had been a mud ball. And the locality''s principle meant that the moment he''d lost direct contact with the ball, he''d lost the ability to influence its actions. This prevented him from slowing it down or altering its course in mid flight. The consequences were still dripping down Bob''s face. And Bob smiled through the consequences. Lesser mages might not appreciate the point, but embarrassing, dramatic accidents are par for the course in the study of the mystic arts. They just proved he was a magician willing to push the boundaries of his art. A bonus of the accident was that George had finally shown interest. The dog had wandered over and started to help lick away the mud on Bob''s face. "Thanks boy, I appreciate the moral support." Bob was ready. He was finally ready. He was hesitant, fearful, paranoid and fundamentally lazy, but he understood the inevitable. Bob''s only choice. Scratch that. Bob and George''s only choice was to level up. To level up and get stronger. They didn''t have to become heroes or gods. Bob didn''t want to be Hokage or any other such nonsense. He just needed to be strong enough to fend off three''s company and any other scavengers that might come looking for the sack of gold tied around Bob''s pretty head. Bob and George were going hunting. ¡°George, I¡¯m warning you. This is not a pleasure stroll.¡± Bob addressed his remark to the golden dog¡¯s backside as the dog skittered around, nose to the ground, zigzagged backwards and forward. ¡°We¡¯re going hunting. You understand. Hunting. We need to sneak up on things. Stealth. Subterfuge. Subtlety. If you rush down, barking your head off at the first sign of anything, we are going to die.¡± George didn¡¯t respond, only wagging his tail a little and peeping back at Bob every time his name was said. Somehow Bob felt like he hadn¡¯t quite gotten through to the animal. They¡¯d been walking only five minutes and Bob was seriously debating tying the animal to some post and going on alone. George had already dashed off twice without warning, leaving Bob to chase after with his heart in his mouth. The first time, it''d been another one of those Raupenfliegers. George did not remember them fondly. And this one died in a sharp and furious burst of red fire, its acidic internal liquids vaporized instantly. That was one way to deal with them. The second time George had found some kind of animal trail and started exploring it with the eager abandon of a child. Animal trail was the wrong word Bob discovered. When Bob had reached the spot, he''d seen a six foot highway of dead, brown grass extending in both directions. The place had an acidic, tangy odor. And there was what looked like slime smeared all over the place. George had promptly licked up some of the stuff. And promptly started spitting it out, belching the slime back out on the ground with coughs of black smoke. It hadn¡¯t agreed with his constitution. So George, in his wisdom, decided to wash it down with some muddy, stagnant water he''d found, while Bob facepalmed and worried about the dog catching dysentery or some other equally unpleasant disease that would make sharing shelter with the animal an absolute nightmare. The "animal trail" had spooked Bob. It didn¡¯t take much hard thinking for Bob to see that some enormous animal had slithered through here. Most likely something from the snail or slug family. Six foot wide and who knew how long, the thing must be an absolute monster. Bob shuddered to realize that they were still only a couple hundred meters distant from their camp. If that thing waddled on top of their tent in the night while they were both asleep... Well let''s just say they wouldn''t wake up in the morning. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. And here was George bouncing around happily. Even a mouthful of poisonous acid hadn''t discouraged the dog. George was celebrating his second walk in the same day. It was a rare treat for a dog who frequently didn''t even get one (what? A man''s gotta work don''t he?). But Bob couldn''t share his companion''s self-assurance. He was a good deal more wary and cynical than his carefree pet. He knew the system. Oh yes, he knew the system all too well and he would bet money there were strong enemies nearby. Probably lots and probably far stronger than George and himself. Just look at that slime trail. And Bob had every confidence that George would find said enemies and bring them laughing back straight to where Bob stood. Bob had no desire to become a second cautionary tale: curiosity killed the dog; and its master too. Thus Bob¡¯s paranoid caution. Yes Bob had seriously debated walking George back to the bathroom and closing the door on him. The problem was, yes, when Bob was honest with himself, the hard truth, and Bob didn¡¯t like to say it aloud, but George, his dog, was significantly stronger than him. Bob had watched George¡¯s fire breath melt a patch of landscape to a black, ashen sludge. The extent of Bob¡¯s power, on the other hand, was a halting ability to influence the surrounding mud and passable control of his cloak. It wasn¡¯t hard to see which of the two would be doing the heavy lifting. But there was a more fundamental reason Bob felt he had to drag George along with him (or be dragged along with George). George needed to get stronger too. This new world was a right lonely place and Bob didn¡¯t want to have to leave behind his best friend. Bob and George, they were a team, even if they sure as hell hadn¡¯t figured out how to act like one yet. Nope, Bob would stick with George, through thick and thin, through fire and ice. They''d be alright. Bob would keep George in line and prevent him from getting into the worst trouble. "You and me¡ª George, George, come back boy. George, no, George, dammit all.¡± There had been a rustle in the grasses a few meters to their left and George wanted no better invitation. The canine plunged into the bushes, desperately seeking his own and Bob''s destruction. Bob sprinting after, cursing himself for bringing along the brute and threatening unspeakable things on his happy-go-lucky companion. He pulled out the tutorial knife (just in case), though a hell of a lot of good it would do him in a fight. When George stopped to sniff the ground, Bob dived at him, tackling the dog down. George barked and struggled. ¡°Shut up, George.¡± The dog rolled up onto his feet and made to push forward, but Bob had him by the collar. There, only a stone¡¯s throw away, was a rustling movement through the grasses. Bob swallowed, heart pounding, and stared at the spot. A system annotation helpfully appeared: Spinnenh¨¹pfer (lvl 5). Bob swore silently to himself. He and George were both level 1. They''d taken damage from a flying caterpillar for heaven''s sake. A level 5 meant trouble. A level 5 might be the end of the line. Maybe it wouldn''t notice them and they could let it pass. Fat chance. Of course, the rustle and its corresponding annotation were steadily approaching their position. George¡¯s earlier barking had definitely alerted the monster. That dog had a death wish. We''ll just back away now. Let¡¯s slowly back away. ¡°George, bloody hell,¡± Bob hissed in as angry a whisper as he could manage. The dog was pulling on his collar with all his might. Bob yanked hard and the dog whined in pain. Bob stopped immediately. ¡°George, please, please boy; you¡¯ve got to come with me.¡± The level five monster was dangerously close now. Paces away. ¡°George, you''ve got to listen to me. Please, George.¡± Bob¡¯s panic seemed to communicate itself to the dog, because George stopped pulling and looked thoughtfully at Bob (probably wondering how he could comfort his master). That was when the underbrush directly ahead of them started to shake. George turned and snarled at the approaching enemy. Bob got eyes on the monster at last. It was a spider-like creature, but swollen up to the size of a wild turkey, with grasshopper back-legs, folded and powerful looking. Its skin was a black and green camouflage that melded well with the grassland terrain. "That¡¯s a level 5 monster," Bob muttered to himself, setting his jaw and searching his pockets for something like courage. The spider made Grumpy-nose, the boar, look like a little boy''s cuddly toy. Damn, he must have dropped his courage somewhere, because he sure as hell couldn''t find it in his back pocket. Never can find courage when you need it. Bob could feel sweat rolling down his forehead. His hands felt cold and clumsy. His throat was strangely dry. He swallowed and swallowed, but it only got drier and drier. This here, this here, why this here looks something like the end... "You''re a wizard Bob." "What did you say?" "You''re a wizard Bob. You''re not the same fish out of water you were in the initiation. You can handle this, no probs. Give him a taste of your mud powers." "Yeah, yeah, maybe, okay, okay, I can do this." Bob put a hand on the ground. He felt the mud. He felt that double-sensation, his special mud sense. He concentrated, imagining exactly what he wanted to happen. A sphere of the stuff exploded out of the ground and flew straight at the spider. Splat, direct hit, bull¡¯s eye, bang in the eyes. "Take that!" Bob was chuffed. That was a mud-shot wasn¡¯t it? Pure and true. Mud-bullet maybe? He''d never been able to manage the operation so smoothly in practice. Nothing like life and death pressure to improve performance. Really, wow. That had been clean, swift, precise. Bob hadn''t given himself enough credit. Wish the other mages could have seen that. Miss. Wobblewand be damned. Bob stopped self-congratulating himself long enough to examine his adversary. The mud had started to drip down and slide off. The monster looked completely unharmed. It had only paused, momentarily stunned by the sudden mud splatter. That made sense. Who ever heard of someone dying from getting hit by a ball of mud? Bob groaned as he staggered back a step. "Why is my power shit?" He asked of the heavens. The heavens only laughed. Chapter 40 - The master of improvisation "Why is my power such absolute horseshit," Bob yelled, as the spider exploded forward, using its back legs to propel itself at Bob like a pistol shot. Bob was bowled over, coming down backwards onto the muddy ground, the tutorial knife flying clean out of his hand and landing with a plop in the mud. The damn thing was on top of him, its black hairy legs pawing over him, rubbing him up and down, stroking his face with its fine, surprisingly soft and delicate black hair. The spider¡¯s face hovered just above Bob¡¯s own as it struggled to gain enough leverage for a final, killing-bite. Bob was disorientated, half-blinded, his mind in a fuzzy, blurred state, the strangest thoughts rushing through his head; he had noticed a little growth of hair above the spider¡¯s mouth and somehow it made him think of a toothbrush mustache; Bob started laughing madly, the resemblance was just uncanny; he couldn¡¯t help himself. It looked so ridiculous and yet it oddly suited the spider; it gave the monster a sort of crisp, business-man spider look. You know, I think, more spiders should try growing facial hair¡ªwhat the hell was wrong with him? By all rights the spider should have put the poor man out of his misery long ago, except Bob¡¯s mud cloak was wriggling and shifting all by itself, working hard to keep the spider off balance. A witness might have testified that the spider was aggressively dancing on top of the man. Every time the monster made to bite down, it would find itself sliding and stumbling off, all eight legs barely enough to maintain its position on top of Bob. Bob snapped back to himself. ¡°George, help, get it off me, get it off me,¡± he screamed at the top of his lungs, the picture of the cool, calm and collected hero. The spider was swiping at the air, its jaw clattering up and down in an eager attempt to sink its teeth into poor, helpless Bobby-boy. George was running circles around the pair of them, barking loudly, but without providing any tangible assistance. Dammit, Bob thought, he¡¯ll bring a swarm down on us. ¡°George, help! I¡¯m getting eaten alive here.¡± The dog¡¯s barks loudened but he didn¡¯t move to help his master. What¡¯s wrong with the animal? George looked confused, and what was that, a little jealous. The mutt thinks the spider and I are playing together. What on earth gave him that impression? Wait wasn¡¯t I laughing earlier. Bob, I¡¯m going to kill you later. Bob caught sight of the dagger, lying a few paces away in a patch of mud, just out of reach. Dammit, dammit, dammit... He closed his eyes. Better to die with your eyes closed anyway. A wind shock hit him in the face, he flinched, but didn''t open his eyes. He felt the mud under him, further, further, using the mud itself as a medium, he expanded his awareness, there, something hard and cold, something not mud: the dagger. This was his only chance. While his cloak was still buying him time. It had to work. He focused. He imagined. He designed the spell. Now! The mud around the dagger exploded up, it had worked... except, well, naturally the heavy dagger had just slipped through the semi-liquid mud and thumped down to the ground. So much for catapulting the dagger into the spider¡¯s side... The mud though had flown straight into the spider''s open mouth and the spider was not enjoying the experience. Bob, ever the master of improvisation, knew how to take a cue. He shifted tactics and just tried to shove as much mud as he could into the spider¡¯s mouth. The move was surprisingly effective. The spider seemed to have an uphill battle intaking sufficient oxygen as wave after wave of mud flew into his open mouth. Those beady black eyes over a toothbrush mustache creased in frustration and anger. The beast was half-choking, spitting out or swallowing down buckets of mud as it struggled to keep Bob pinned to the ground. The mud barrage wasn¡¯t about to kill the beast, but it sure annoyed the hell out of the creature. And that made Bob feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. So everyone¡¯s a winner. Unfortunately, the spider was a smart cookie. It only needed three seconds to figure out that the relentless stream of mud was Bob¡¯s doing and, therefore, finishing Bob would simultaneously stop the mud. Two birds one Bob. So mud drooling out of its mouth, it renewed the assault against Bob¡¯s exposed neck. It had also learned not to stand directly on top of Bob and his bucking mud cloak, and was repositioning its feet onto stabler ground. Time was short. ¡°George, here boy, here boy,¡± Bob called out in as cheerful and inviting a voice as he could manage present circumstances considering. Bob had given up on difficult, high-level concepts like ¡°help¡± or ¡°get him off me.¡± He needed a clear, simple command that George would respond to instinctually. Sure enough, these five words cut through George¡¯s indecision and had him bounding over. The dog collided head on with the spider as the dog did his best to mob poor Bob lying on the ground. The impact and ensuing distraction gave Bob just enough time to roll away from the spider and struggle up to his feet. Both parties froze, looking at each other across a few yards of crumbled and muddy grass. Bob braced himself expecting another lightning spring from the spider. But George was the first to act. He bounced happily forward and sniffed curiously at the creature. The spider hesitated, not sensing any animosity from the dog. Bob knew George could one-shot the monster whenever he wanted. Problem was George was a friendly-as-pie, wouldn¡¯t-hurt-a-fly, the world-is-sunshine-and-rainbows golden retriever. And he was just as likely to roll over and present his belly for scratching, as he was to put down the dangerous spider who''d been trying to kill Bob. Bob would have to take matters into his own hands. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°George, fire!¡± Bob shouted. George turned and looked confusedly at his master. Bob groaned to himself. And the spider looked uncertainly between the pair, raising its two front legs defensively. The dog is going to make me do the whole bloody ritual. Thankfully we''ve practiced this. The spider leaned back, winding up those back legs as though preparing for another lunge. "Sit! Shake! Lie Down!" Bob called out in quick succession, gaze glued on the level 5 monstrosity in front of them, ignoring George''s smooth and practiced transition between the steps. The spider was at a complete loss. Was this an attack? A ploy? Some kind of deep ambush. Its prey didn¡¯t usually walk nonchalantly up to it, wagging its tail playfully and then drop into a series of meaningless tricks. The spider turned towards George. It stepped cautiously forward. Bob gasped, forgetting his commands, "George, get out of there!" George licked the spider¡¯s face. The spider froze where it stood. Bob facepalmed in the background. George coughed; he must have gotten some of that mustache hair caught in the throat; the dog stepped back, looking like he was about to sneeze. ¡°Fire, George, fire that motherfucker down.¡± Out billowed a wave of concentrated fire. Smoke, the smell of burnt hair and melting flesh. When the air cleared, the spider was curled up on the ground, its legs wrapped defensively around itself, absolutely and utterly dead. Its toothbrush mustache incinerated down to the last hair. The corpse smoldered with black, stinging smoke. George had obliterated the creature. Bob let himself crumble down onto the grass land, his hands stretched out behind him, panting and grinning. Thank god he¡¯d brought George with him. The encounter might have gone pear-shaped fast without the dog to back him up. That dog''s power was horrifying. Terrifying on a carnal, primal level. It was the sort of thing that should have come out of the mouth of a battleship-sized red dragon and not a smaller-than-average golden retriever. But the two were going to have to work on their teamwork. It''d sure help if George learned to recognize a monster as a threat and not as a potential playmate. Still they¡¯d done it, hadn¡¯t they? He was flushed with exhilaration and adrenaline. Touch and go to be sure. But it was their first time and they¡¯d get better. Results are what''s important. A loud, popping sound dragged Bob¡¯s attention back to the scene in front of them. The spider¡¯s carcass had disappeared. All right. That meant loot, didn¡¯t it? Bob got to his feet and searched the scorched earth around where the spider had lain. He couldn¡¯t find anything. And rummaging through the ground, he felt like he put his hand through some things he wished he hadn¡¯t. George could liquify stone couldn¡¯t he? Spider fat¡ªthat was child¡¯s play to him. Bob frowned and looked over at the dog. ¡°You find anything George.¡± The dog had a guilty look on his face. Bob recognized it from when George used to miss the toilet sheet and urinate on the bathroom floor. ¡°George, you did something, didn¡¯t you?¡± The dog whined and backed away. Bob stalked forward. ¡°George. I¡¯m going to find out eventually. Best come clean now.¡± The dog looked down at the ground and then sadly up at Bob. ¡°George, I¡¯m warning you.¡± The dog, responding to Bob¡¯s tone, came up into a neat sitting position and gazed blankly into the distance. ¡°You¡¯re not fooling anyone with your ¡®I¡¯m a good boy act.¡¯¡± Bob looked inside George¡¯s red satchel, but the bag was just as empty as before. Had the dog swallowed something he shouldn¡¯t? Bob knelt down and tried to get a look between the dog¡¯s teeth. George kept his jaw clamped firmly shut. ¡°You¡¯ve got something in there don¡¯t you. Spit it out, boy. Spit it out.¡± Pop, the smoldering carcass reappeared centimeters from Bob¡¯s face. Then the rank smell hit him and he went green in the face, before stumbling back a few steps to the cleaner air. Bob looked wild-eyed at the dog. ¡°George, how did you do that?¡± George barked and looked like he was twisting his neck to point at something. The dog¡¯s anatomy didn¡¯t quite let him achieve his intention. But Bob got the message. ¡°The backpack? Your companion object?¡± Bob approached gingerly, taking a circuitous route to maintain distance between himself and the dead body. ¡°You can store things?¡± George barked. But Bob knew that was probably just a sound and not an answer. ¡°It works like an inventory system I suppose. You pop things in and can pull them out again later.¡± Bob was thinking back over their experiences. He nodded to himself, understanding at last. ¡°So that¡¯s how you pulled off that magical branch switching, is it? You picked the branch up again before we left camp. Then when you couldn¡¯t find the one I threw. You just spat out the old one and brought it back instead.¡± Bob nodded to himself. ¡°Intriguing. And I won¡¯t point out what that says about your moral character. Half-assing the true goal and then handing in a substitute.¡± Pop. ¡°You didn¡¯t George?¡± George had. He had once more stored up the spider corpse in his personal space. ¡°George, what do you want with the thing? It stinks worse than the bins after I forget to take the rubbish. Spit it out. Come on. Spit it out.¡± This time George was less amenable. ¡°Come on George, old buddy boy, look I¡¯ll give you a treat when we get home, let¡¯s just leave the thing here.¡± The prospect of a far-off, speculative treat that Bob was just as likely to forget as to remember was not temptation enough for George. The dog turned away and started sniffing through the burnt wreckage. ¡°Fine, George, have it your way. Sometimes I don¡¯t know who¡¯s the master and who¡¯s the dog. But I¡¯m warning you. If you spit that corpse out in my room later, you are going to get it hot. Capisce.¡± George happily ignored Bob¡¯s ramblings. Bob had a long-habit of talking to himself and George had divined the art of knowing when and when not to listen. Bob grumbled to himself a little longer: "Stupid dog better not make a habit of this, imagine waking up in the middle of the night to find that abomination in your bed and still warm I bet, and what the hell, personal storage, an inter-dimensional space that he can access at will? I¡¯ve got a raggedy, old cloak made of mud. System playing favorites again. Make a fool out of me will you." He shook his fist at the omnipresent system. But wait a moment, he and George, two level ones had just brought down a level five. That meant experience. That meant level ups. Isn¡¯t that why the two of them were risking their lives on this crazyhouse hunting expedition? Bob pulled up his status. Chapter 41 - Pain and Gain
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 1 (17%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,893,300 credits
"Level 1 (17%)." Now if Bob remembered correctly that was exactly where his level percentage had stood before the fight. In other words, the system in its infinite wisdom had judged Bob¡¯s contribution to the fight at a big, fat zero. Basically it wouldn¡¯t have mattered whether Bob was there or not. Bob wanted to disagree. He¡¯d done lots of things. He¡¯d spattered the monster with a mud missile; he¡¯d half-drowned the animal in a stream of mud; he¡¯d given the final word of command that ended the beast. No experience? Hadn¡¯t he looked a turkey-sized spider eye-to-eye, hadn¡¯t he felt its leg hair against its face, hadn¡¯t he endured an eight-legged creature waltzing on top of him? Those all sounded like experiences, didn¡¯t they? But had he made a difference? Had he really made a difference? Bob gritted his teeth. Harsh but fair. There was no denying that the only punch that mattered had been thrown by the dog. ¡°George, did you level up?¡± Ruff! Why did that sound suspiciously like a yes. Bob thought he remembered a few moments where the dog had gone glassy-eyed after killing the spider. Well, at least the xp hadn¡¯t been wasted. ¡°Congrats boy. I helped didn¡¯t I?¡± George barked indulgently. ¡°Thanks mate. You¡¯d think they might have given me a little assist bonus.¡± Bob was having a hard time accepting the zero. Sure mud to the mouth might not constitute physical damage, but had the system taken into account emotional damage? Bob certainly felt as though he¡¯d been emotionally damaged by mud. And that was when the fatigue hit him. In all honesty, Bob was surprised he''d lasted as long as he had. He staggered, clutching his head before collapsing onto the grass. The adrenaline of imminent death having petered out, the full price of his mana overuse had swept over him. He threw up violently. Then he threw up again. His head felt like it was going to split open. He wished the spider had finished him off after all. Just perfect. All the pain and none of the gain. Bob lay in the mud, half-death with fatigue, just staring glassily up at the blue sky. It was supposed to rain later, he remembered. A pity that and it was such a nice day. He wondered how he was supposed to level up moving forward. Because this kind of xp division threw a real wrench in Bob¡¯s secret leveling strategy: setting George¡¯s hell breath loose on as many poor sods as he could find. The system had made sure he didn''t just ride George''s coattails. "Why do I start to think getting stronger is going to be a real challenge for me?" Bob muttered to himself, fixing an evil eye on the heavens. The tutorial knife was lying close by. Groaning, he reached over and picked it up. He didn''t know exactly why. The weapon sure hadn''t proved itself useful up till now. No, that wasn¡¯t true, Bob did know why. His experience with the spider monster had taught him some hard truths about the capabilities and limitations of the mud mage. For one, mud-damage was annoyingly low (read non-existent). A full-on mud banger straight between the eyes and the monster hadn''t even flinched. This weapon was about all he had capable of making a dent in a monster¡¯s side. Now don''t get the wrong idea. Bob was thrilled with his performance against the spider. He felt he''d experienced significant advancement in his mud-bending skills. Sure they might not have contributed towards the final kill, but they had been pretty clutch at keeping Bob¡¯s head on his shoulders. Bob had managed a sustained assault against the spider, directing flow after muddy flow into its chomping jaws. He''d discovered mid-battle that he could sense mud through other mud, which had allowed him to chain his perception and interact with the distant knife. Give a man some credit. This morning he could hardly even sense a ball of mud lying plop in the centre of his open hand. At the same time, Bob saw that he still had a long way to go before he could consider himself a proper battle-mage. Just look at him, he was puddled on the muddy ground, wrung out to complete exhaustion. What would have happened if George¡¯s barking had attracted another monster, or god forbid a swarm of monsters? Bob would have been down and out, and hell knowing George, he probably would have tried to invite them all over for a play-date or something. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Bob needed to be more efficient with his powers. Obviously his mana reserves were miniscule. Bob scratched his head. He probably ought to use his cloak more. He didn''t know if it was because of their "special" connection or because the cloak had its own mana that it was tapping into, but he had noticed that manipulating the cloak cost a fraction of the mana required to move insentient mud. Well no point worrying about it now. Bob would probably be useless for the next thirty minutes. He''d just lie down here and recover himself. Maybe a short nap. A nap sounded capital. George would keep watch. Bob blinked at the dog. Something was wrong. George had frozen in place and was glaring at a patch of tall grass. "What is it boy?" Bob had a terrible suspicion. He came up on his elbows and crawled over to the dog. Bob followed the dog''s gaze. He couldn''t see anything. "What is it boy?" Bob whispered, but George didn''t move; he''d gone dead still. Bob couldn''t see anything, but he trusted the dog. He''d kept his eyes trained on the spot and... there! He made out the shadow of a creature moving under the grasses. He winched. He didn''t feel so good. No, he didn''t feel good at all. Why had George had to make such a racket? That and George''s fireball of death had almost certainly attracted the monster. The only silver lining was that George had not bounded, tongue lolling out, into the obvious danger. Maybe the creature hadn''t caught sight of them yet. Maybe it''d just pass right by. They were hiding in a burnt-out patch of grass, complete with a very visible smoke trail. Bob wished he''d had the foresight to move out of the area and not squander his grace period checking his status and complaining about the system. We all make many wishes, don''t we? A second of further study and the system populated the annotation over the monster''s head: "Erntemantik (lvl 7)". God have mercy. He hadn''t managed to put a scratch on the level 5 spider and now a level 7 was approaching. And it wasn''t like he was at the top of his form. He felt dead on his feet. Dead even before the monster had had a chance to kill him. Bob gritted his teeth. What did they always say? You learned best facing your betters not your inferiors. Maybe this would be a rise-to-the-moment situation for Bob. That would be compelling, right? That''s what would have happened to Jonny the Man. The monster was insect-based. It stood as tall as a secondary-school kid. It walked two legged, its arms shaped into long, curved blades, a double set of wings folded on its back. Green with brown undertones and black highlights. Hope dies slowly. Maybe the creature was just scouting. Come to peek around and see who had caused this black scar on the landscape. Surely an animal would have to be crazy to come to the site of such awesome destruction. Where was the creature''s sense of fear? Bob closed his eyes, put his hand on the ground and felt around him with his mud-sense. Just sensing the mud seemed to have a minimal mana cost. And he was getting better at it. It took less and less time to pick out that particular sensation from the jumble of sensory stimuli. His consciousness flowed forward towards the monster''s position. He sure was lucky there was so much mud around. If it weren¡¯t for yesterday¡¯s rainstorm, the soil would probably be dry and hard and wouldn''t have counted as mud. Now that he thought about it, the system was stacking the deck in Bob¡¯s favor. Mud to the mud mage. You call this lucky: to be trapped in a zone with nightly rain and elbow-deep mud fields? But it was lucky. And the worse thing was, that even though Bob stood in his natural domain, surrounded by his mastered element, Bob was still absolutely and unequivocally weak as straw. Of course, the reaper-insect was making straight for their position. His mud sense confirmed it. There was no mistake. Another lucky encounter. Just perfect. Thank you system for your infinite bounty and guidance. We are all most grateful to have another chance to die a horrible and painful death at the hand of your creations. Amen. There was a momentary golden shimmer in the air.
The system has received your prayer.
Bob shook his head. "One of these days..." he ground out through clenched teeth. Bob had been holding George¡¯s collar all this time. Just in case, as he''d said to himself, but the dog hadn¡¯t pulled on it once. Now Bob quietly let go. He sincerely wished that the dog would remember how good Bob had been to him, how many times Bob had scratched him behind the ears or rubbed his belly, and do everything in his power to save his master from the terrible fate that seemed about to befall him. Bob tried to make a plan. Yes, Bob was an excellent planner. It had been all his superior planning that had got him through the initiation. Repeatedly betting his life again and again on the arbitrary spinning of a little ball in a wooden wheel, yeah that had been a plan, all planned, all according to plan. He hadn¡¯t just gotten shit-faced on whiskey and beer and let his smoldering anger take control. Somehow he felt that story lost something in the retelling. Plan-time. Bob¡¯s mud casting was ill-suited to direct confrontation (read all combat). Of course, Bob knew better than anyone that being splattered by mud was unpleasant (Bob dared anyone to disagree with this point), but deadly, mortal, slain-by-mud, not quite. Hell, Bob had got more mud in the face than anyone and he was still alive to complain about the fact. Mud casting was out. That left Bob with the knife. Bob held the knife lamely in his right hand. The difficulty with said knife was the range on the blade. He would have to get right up and personal before he could put the knife to a meaningful purpose. Now that reaper insect, on the other hand, had forelimbs toned into two-foot long, razor-sharp scimitars. And Bob had the inkling the creature would know how to use them, while Bob could only with extreme and probably unjustified generosity be called a swordsman. And right now he felt more like a sack of potatoes, a sack of bruised potatoes. Bob could throw the weapon, his only weapon. He¡¯d seen it done in movies. A clean, double rotation and the pointy edge stabs neatly into the temple. He could try it, hoping not only the blade would make contact (he remembered throwing stones at a pigeon a while back), but that he would somehow time the rotation correctly; not to mention the wound would have to be instantaneously fatal, because otherwise the monster would probably have enough time to cut Bob down. Long odds. But Bob was lucky wasn¡¯t he? That lucky? Was Bob that lucky? Chapter 42 - Thank you George Was Bob that lucky? Guess we¡¯re all about to find out. Thankfully Bob had his ace in the hole, his canine companion, George of the golden flames. George would have to do the lion''s share. Bob didn¡¯t think the beast would stand a chance against George¡¯s fire breath. The attack was overpowering, all-destroying, especially against the grass-themed monsters of the prairie land. The problem was twofold. First, Bob really wanted a taste of experience, you know, to wet his beak in the golden liquid that let a man level up. Second, George was a dog and did not take directions well (when he took directions at all). Bob hesitated. The monster did not. It paced up to a sprint, slashing deftly through the tall grasses as it came straight for them. Bob leapt to his feet, moaning at the effort and taking just enough time to notice some rather attractive human-looking feet on the creature. Were those nails painted? It was in a rather modern and dynamic style too: green and black diagonal stripes. Where does the monster go to get that done? Ok, zone out distractions Bob, focus, let¡¯s put your luck to the test. He cocked his arm, aiming for the forehead of the creature and, pow, unloaded the tutorial knife in its general direction. The dagger swung, twisted, veered, and dropped a good foot short and left of the beast. Interference, ref, the grasses got in the way, the shot¡¯s null and void, give us another go. The monster was having none of that. Uncharitable soul. Oh shit, here it comes. Bob thought fast. He swung off his mud cloak and wrapped it around his right arm. You can do this Bob. You can do this. That is not a rampaging monster with two-foot scythes on either arm. You are not about to meet a gruesome and meaningless death. You are in your happy place. The monster charged the final stretch, its wings unfurling smoothly and propelling it forward with a burst of speed. Bob whipped the cloak round at the approaching monster. The insect raised its blade-arms and sliced clean through the cloth. Drats. Except the material had shifted to wet mud and slid straight through the blade''s edge, reconnecting on the other side, and shimming up the creature¡¯s body, before pulling tight. I knew the cloak could do that. Of course I did. That was my plan all along. A brilliant idea and well, it might have worked too. The first few attempts to cut the cloak off were met with the same mud-phasing technique. But the insect learned fast. It had already unfolded its wings and started them buzzing, generating a wind towards Bob¡¯s cloak. At the same time, the insect began sawing through the cloth. Tragically, a substance can¡¯t be both liquid and solid at the same moment. The cloak was blown off in a muddy wind, falling to the ground and curling up together like a wounded child. Bob started to back away. He¡¯d done his part hadn¡¯t he? Several successfully landed attacks. Stunning creativity. He could rest on his laurels. Time to call the cavalry. ¡°George, fire. Fire away, burn the bastards.¡± George looked quizzically to the side and then turned in Bob¡¯s direction as though he wanted some confirmation on what the command was supposed to mean. "Not this again; there''s no time George," Bob hissed, giving ground. ¡°Fire, George, fire!¡± Bob motioned spitting something out of his mouth. Bob saw the slow cogs of the dog¡¯s mind clicking into place. The dog drew in a deep breath of air. He¡¯d actually gotten the message, no long and pointless rituals required. Thank the heavens. Smart dog that. ¡°Wait, George, wait, the monster''s over there.¡± George was looking straight at Bob. ¡°George, no, stop, George.¡± Bob dived out of the way as a jet of red flames erupted through where he¡¯d be two seconds ago. ¡°Friendly fire. Friendly fire. You trying to kill me George?¡± George wandered concernedly over like he was worried whether Bob was alright. He had an exasperated curl to his tail that seemed to say: you were the one who told me to do it. Bob wanted to swear his head off at the dog, but George had a point and Bob had more pressing matters. The insect-reaper, understandingly a little off balance by the sudden explosion not two feet away, had recovered itself and was planning its attack. Bob swiveled his gaze left then right. Something, something. There. He¡¯d happened to dive in the direction of the fallen dagger. Another stroke of genius. He picked it up. He was armed (a lot of good it would do him). He had half-a-second before the creature was on him. His cloak was rolled up dejectedly in a ball to the side. George was a loose cannon. And the mud on the plains was soft and harmless. The creature leaped forward and... stumbled. "Aha, got you!" Bob¡¯s cloak had swiped out and caught the thing by its legs; now was his chance. Bob pounced forward, swinging the dagger down in a brutal, life-ending slash, but the insect didn¡¯t fall, it caught itself in the air with its wings and sped towards him. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. "Cheating scoundrel!" Bob tried to react but the insect was too fast. Two lightning shimmers of the blade. Miraculously Bob managed to reposition the knife under one of them, and sort of crumble away from the second, but the insect edged the blade round at the last moment and the scythe squelched deep into Bob¡¯s shoulder. Bob felt a searing pain and his right arm went limp, the dagger falling away. Hot blood was spilling out of the wound and dripping onto the ground. There was a lot of blood. ¡°George, George, where are you?¡± The dog charged at the monster, but it had seen him coming and just hovering itself up higher. George had finally got the picture. His body was tensed, his tail stiff and raised, ears erect; he snarled fiercely at the insect. "Fire, George, fire,¡± Bob managed to hiss out as he stumbled back trying to put as much distance between himself and the incoming meteorite. George readied himself, yes, thank the system, but the insect knew this trick already and was zooming up higher into the sky. The flamethrower breath fell short. George couldn¡¯t reach. The monster hovered over them, hissing and clicking its jaws, those human feet hanging down, the toes wriggling angrily and around the legs was Bob¡¯s mud cloak. Bob willed himself back to consciousness. Down! Bob pulled on the cloak with his mind. He had a much deeper connection with his companion object and the difference showed. The insect was jerked downwards. It reacted quickly, straining against the cloak¡¯s pull. But Bob was pulling with his whole soul. He dragged it down, slowly, inch by inch, as George waited below. You could see the desperation in the animal¡¯s eyes. It knew what was coming. A little more, just a little more, Bob thought he was about to pass out, there was a lot of blood on the ground, his blood, the grass was sticky with it. But he had the bastard. He had the bastard. It was only a matter of time. The insect looked like it had come to the same conclusion and decided a sacrifice was necessary. It guillotined across with its scythe and George barked angrily as a pair of human feet fell out of the sky and bounced off his head. But no, Bob was watching. Bob was angry. Bob was not about to let this monster get away. He was inside the cloak. And as the insect swung down, Bob had wrapped the cloak around the swinging arm. And now he slithered up to the right wing. The cloak choked out the wing¡¯s heartbeat and the insect careened downwards. Bob parachuted the mud cloak up as George¡¯s fireball materialized in the air and swallowed the monster whole. Death to the wicked. A sizzlingly hunk of charred flesh fell, plop, out of the sky and onto the mud plains. Bob¡¯s vision was tunneling; he was still losing blood. He tried to move his arm. Nothing. George rushed over, whining deep in the back of his throat, as he tried to lick the wound. Bob almost smiled. It was a delirious, am-I-hallucinating kind of smile, but it was a smile. ¡°You did good, George. You did real good.¡± George howled. It looked like the dog couldn¡¯t sit still. He rushed backwards and forwards aimlessly. Bob crumbled down. His pack fell off his shoulders and onto the ground. He felt white and cold. He was tired. The pack, Bob, the pack! Yes, Bob almost remembered, hadn¡¯t he put something in his pack, the thoughts came to him very distant and calm. His good hand crawled towards the pack. He pulled on the zip. It came undone a little and then caught. The angle was bad. Bob paused. Just a little break. He¡¯d try again in a little bit. Thirty seconds. A minute. You know, when he had his strength back. George had seen what Bob was doing. And he jumped on the pack. Squeezing his nose into the little hole, he forced open the zip. You¡¯ll break the zip that way, Bob thought to himself, mentally shaking his head. The contents of the bag all fell out onto the grass, onto the bloody grass. That¡¯s my blood, Bob laughed, it seemed sort of funny somehow, how¡¯d it get all the way over there, when I¡¯m all the way over here. Mystery. Everything¡¯s a mystery. Life and death. What am I mumbling on about now¡­ George dragged over a little white square. Bob thought he¡¯d seen it before. He reached out his good hand. He felt a little curious. George¡¯s teeth had torn open the thin, plastic packaging. Bob picked it slowly up and brought it close to his face. He wasn¡¯t seeing that well. Why, it was one of those health patches wasn¡¯t it? He¡¯d bought a couple before they set out. He felt happy that he¡¯d been able to remember. He made to put down the patch. George barked loudly at him. ¡°Calm down boy, calm down.¡± Bob¡¯s voice was a whisper. George kept barking. Bob¡¯s head hurt. What did the dog want from him? Couldn¡¯t he see that Bob was tired? Bob moved to put down the patch. The barking got louder. ¡°What? You want this. What is it again?¡± Bob remembered. ¡°A health patch, that¡¯s right. You hurt George? You need me to put it on you. Where you hurt boy?¡± The dog whined and whimpered and nestled up to Bob. ¡°It¡¯s alright boy. You¡¯ll be alright. Tell me where it hurts.¡± George nosed at Bob¡¯s shoulder and licked the wound again. ¡°Silly me. Silly me, George. You were worried bout me, huh.¡± Bob¡¯s arm moved slowly towards the wound. It was hard. It was so far. One arm to another. After what felt like a lifetime, his hand hovered the injured shoulder. He pushed the patch into place. A shot of delicious warmth trickled through him. It twirled around inside his arm, like it was looking for something, and then sped towards the open wound. He felt strange. The flesh of his arm was moving by itself. It was pulling itself together. The wound was closing, was he asleep, had he finally passed out? He felt the magic still working beneath the skin. The shoulder was hot and itchy as he sensed things knit together. That warm feeling had diffused outwards from the shoulder. He hadn¡¯t noticed how cold his fingers were, a pale, unhealthy white that reminded him¡­ No he didn¡¯t want to say it. Sensation was coming back. His head was clearing. The blurry vision sharpened. And that dear face, that sad slanted head with its browned nose and black ringed eyes, with its yellow whiskers and golden mane, came into view. ¡°George,¡± Bob threw his one good arm around the dog. ¡°George, thank you George. I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re here with me.¡± They weren¡¯t tears. He¡¯d just got something in his eye. The dog cooed and stepped awkwardly closer. ¡°I''m alright George. I¡¯ll make it.¡± The dog sat down on top of Bob, curling in the space between Bob''s legs, head on his lap. Bob stroked George¡¯s head again and again, soft and lovingly. Thank you George. Thank you. Chapter 43 - Worth It They sat there for a long time in the blackened and bloody grass. Bob could have sworn George somehow managed to fall asleep. It had to be some kind of special ability. Bob had enough trouble falling asleep in a feather bed, but George could snooze off anywhere in thirty seconds flat. Talk about a superpower. The day was starting to die. The shadows were lengthening and a chill edge had crept into the breeze. All that time Bob had been avoiding the real question. He was afraid to ask it, afraid to put it to the test. He was afraid to find out the cost of their little misadventure. But he couldn''t keep running from the question. He had to know. Bob tried to move his arm. He bit his lip. He titled his head up. His eyes shined a little. He couldn¡¯t move it. He couldn¡¯t move it an inch. But he didn¡¯t call out. He didn¡¯t weep or curse. He didn¡¯t want to worry the dog. He couldn''t move his arm, not an inch. He was crippled. But he didn''t want to worry George. George had been the hero of the encounter. Yes, that¡¯s right, George had always been the hero. It was always George to the rescue. George did that. George did this. George knows best. Thank you George. Bob was just bumbling along, going from accident to accident. Bob stroked the sleeping dog¡¯s head with his one good hand. Thank God he had George with him. Thank God for George. He wasn¡¯t alone out here. In this dark, heartless world where everyone and everything was an enemy. He had George. That was a comfort. More than he deserved. Maybe he''d just... he tried to move the arm again. No luck. No damn luck. Maybe? And he slapped on another healing patch. The same warm glow. He waited. He hoped. Maybe. He tried again. He shook his head. The arm was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Now let¡¯s find out what it was all worth. Bob pulled up his status:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 1 (17%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,893,300 credits
He managed a grim smile. He wasn¡¯t surprised. He didn¡¯t even blame the system. Anything more and it just would have been pity. What had he done? Trip up the creature? Drag it down from the sky? It was George who killed the beast. George who deserved the experience. Bob deserved nothing. Bob deserved what he got. Bob looked darkly at his arm. It hung there clumsily, swaying in small circles as he moved the rest of his body. It was his right arm. His dominant hand. Bob would never be a swordsman now. Not that he ever had been. Never be a spearman either. Never a bowman. Never be a warrior standing on the frontlines with only his weapon and a sea of enemies. He threw himself back, lying on the grass and looked up at the sky. What was he supposed to do now? Their hunting expedition had been an absolute disaster. Bob was just as weak, no weaker, far weaker than he had been this morning. His dominant arm was a lump of dead wood. The arm even got in the way, impeding his free movements, counterbalancing his actions. He was so, so far from being a fighter, from even being able to protect himself. Were they supposed to go on like this? What would Bob lose next, a leg, his other arm, his head? That¡¯s what the insect had been going for. That swipe had been aimed for his head. And it would have connected to. Only his last-ditch dodge had saved him. He might have died right then. Bob realized, lying there, remembering the fight, he was afraid. Oh my god, he was afraid. Sure he¡¯d seen people die in the tutorial, but they¡¯d just disappeared or been dragged away into back rooms. He¡¯d never really seen it. A man brought down in cold blood, a blank-eyed corpse lying on the ground, his guts spilling out of him. Bob had approached this hunting like it was a game. Monsters spawned to be bested by noble heroes. George¡¯s fire breath killed a monster in a moment, in a flash of blinding light, but that wasn¡¯t how people usually died. That wasn¡¯t what would have happened to Bob if he¡¯d been a second slower. He¡¯d die hard and slow and some monster would swallow him down piece by piece. He felt nauseous. His heart pounded. Blood was rushing to his head. Did he really have to go back out there? Did he have to keep fighting? Wasn¡¯t there some other, easier way? There had to be. But look right there, hovering just above him, that sharp point suspended by an invisible string: The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Quest: Sword of Damocles (World) Kill Viscount Bob, Lord of Earth Reward:
Rank, glory and a million credits. Somebody would step up to make their name, no? Oh somebody would step up alright. Hadn¡¯t Bob learned that already? This here was a bloody, dystopian world and the only way up was on a tide of blood. Somebody would step up alright. Bob¡¯s head was on the block. He was afraid. Yes, he admitted it to himself. It stung at his pride, but it was the truth. He wanted to run. He had to run. If only the damn sword would fall on him already! This suspense was unbearable. Always to look over one''s shoulder. To be afraid of every shadow and whisper. Always to be weak. George was lying in his lap, smiling in some happy dream. "Dammit George," Bob whispered to himself, feeling the shadow of a grin. "If it wasn''t for George, I''d have given up way back. I''d have died in the second challenge, died in that chair when the lights went out." Bob sighed. He couldn''t just give up. Not while he still had George to look after. But he didn''t have any hope left. He didn''t see a path out. He was numb and broken inside. He just didn''t want to worry the dog. That was the least he could do. That was all he could do. Bob gently woke George up. "George let''s head back to camp." George jumped up as bright and cheerful as always, his tail wagging and eyes beaming. Bob scrounged up his mud cloak from where it fallen on the ground. Pop. Bob turned to find the dog standing at the old battlefield with a guilty look on his face. It only took Bob a moment to notice what was missing. ¡°George, why you gotta go and collect the dead corpses¡­¡± George pretended not to hear. ¡°Just don¡¯t take them out at camp okay. I really don¡¯t want to see that thing again.¡± The dog pretended not to hear. It was a short walk home. Their hill dominated the landscape so it was impossible to lose their way. On the way back, they encountered a level 9 Panzerk?fer stomping around. It was a monstrous green beetle about the size of a minivan. And was that a unicorn horn protruding from its forehead? At any rate the horn stretched out a good three feet, tapering to a sharp point and glimmering with a pearly, ethereal whiteness. Bob knew death when he saw him. They had no chance against a creature like that. Even George might not have been able to one-shot that monstrosity. Thankfully the monster''s massive size meant Bob had spotted it from a fair distance. Far enough that they could hide and wait for the insect to bugger off. Bob dragged George to the ground and draped the mud cloak across both of them. The unicorn-beetle didn¡¯t even glance in their direction. They waited five minutes until the monster had disappeared from sight and then carried on. Nowhere''s safe. That was the message Bob took away from the meeting. How he missed that grace period. He really wished he''d spent it a little more profitably. The rest of the way back, he was even more cautious and paranoid, crouching and sticking to patches of high grass. This must be what prey feels like. The fox in the woods with the hunting horns echoing around him. It was a slow journey, boring and nerve-wracking at the same time and when they''d reached their little depression with the camp chair and the tent laid out on the ground, Bob collapsed straightway into the seat. He was mentally exhausted. He wanted to sleep and forget everything in the night fog. Bob eyed the campsite. "Whose great idea was it to leave setting up the tent till later? When the warrior returned tired and wounded from the battlefield... I hate you, afternoon Bob. You planned this." Either way Bob needed five minutes to wallow. Except Bob''s eyes fell on the narrow channel that cut into their depression. He hadn''t liked the look of it before and now the sight positively haunted him. It was a shortcut directly to their hideout. Some nocturnal monster was bound to chance upon it and be led straight to their sleeping bodies. There wasn''t a hope in hell Bob could sleep with that black mouth looming over his dreams. He''d have to block up the gulley somehow. No rest for the weary. The job must have taken Bob an hour. And whatever had been left of his mood had not survived the effort. You''d be staggered to discover how frequently you actually use both arms without realizing it. And Bob had one. And with that one, he''d had to roll over every stone in the area and stack them up into a two foot wall. Even this much would have been impossible if the channel had been any wider. Naturally, Bob had wanted to give up at this point, but the two foot pile of loose stone didn''t look like it would stop a soul. So he''d persisted. He''d used his mud powers to fill in all the little gaps between the stones, coat the whole structure in an inch layer of mud, and, then for good measure, he''d added an extra foot to the top of the wall. Bob continued to frown at the humble, little barricade, wiping away sweat from his forehead. It was no Helm''s Deep, but he just couldn''t be bothered to work any longer. He was tired, frustrated, and in a black, smoldering temper. He could have built it twice as high and strong if he''d had both arms. He glared at the lifeless stump, hanging off his right shoulder. It was his own fault. It was all his own fault. His frown deepened as he stared longer at the three-foot wall of mud and stone. It was probably enough, right? At least it should stop anyone from just wandering in (maybe). Hell from a distance, it might even look like the channel stopped in a dead end (maybe). Surely it would serve for one evening at least (maybe). Whatever. Tomorrow Bob would think about sealing it off proper. Let nobody say Bob wasn''t trying to stay alive, even if it felt like the effort would all be pointless in the end. He''d slaved away for a full hour, when anyone else would have crumbled into their sleeping bag and cried themself to sleep. He''d done his part. And now it was truly night. And Bob still had a tent to put up. "I hate my life." Chapter 44 - One Mans Mud Arm Bob had done a lot of menial work in his time. He''d spent a week doing data entry and two weeks doing data cleanup. He''d sat through three-hour meetings where only one person spoke. He''d sent various turtle icons between his two work accounts, thousands, ten of thousands, maybe even millions of times. And yet setting up a two-man tent with one good arm in the dark was testing Bob to the limits of his frustration. He''d started off well. In that he''d completely forgotten that his current tent was inappropriate for serious camping. It was his leisure tent, tall-ceilinged, bright blue, airy, comfortable. Of course, Bob only made the discovery after twenty long minutes of faffing around with the thing, pulling everything out of its neat, little packages and spreading it in a wide, disordered circle around the campsite. He spat out some choice insults (both at the tent and at himself), before settling on a military grade tent he''d found in the system shop. It was a low half-cylinder with barely enough room to sit up and covered in grassland camouflage. Windproof, waterproof, mosquito-proof, proof-proof. Bob might have enjoyed the shop¡¯s description a little much. Anyway he¡¯d marked out the foundation (five feet away from the old tent wreckage) and was in the process of trying to set the thing up. Trying yes, succeeding no. How do you hold a peg in place and hit it with a mallet at the same time with one hand? Answer¡ªyou don¡¯t. You¡¯d think, no problem, just drive the peg firm into the ground first with your hand and then once it was secure, smack it on the head with the mallet. If only life was so easy¡­ No, the campsite was at the bottom of a depression, meaning it was where water pooled, meaning the ground was a soggy mud-scape, meaning you could jam a peg in as hard as you wanted, but it would slide and squelch and for the love of god, would not go in straight. Bob lobbed the hammer in frustration. When you imagine the wounded, you think of the pain, of the disability, of walking or driving, what you don¡¯t think of are the endless inconveniences, the little, simple forgettable actions that are turned into grand trials of spirit and nature. You don¡¯t see the accumulation of small victories required to enable an ordinary life. Bob was seeing them now. Bob had thrown the hammer a fair distance. "Now I¡¯ve got to go pick it up," he complained to himself, "why do I have to be so damn good at throwing with my left hand?" It was fortunate there was a pale half-moon in the sky, because otherwise Bob would have been blind as a bat and he was far too terrified to risk any kind of artificial light. Bob groped around in the dark. He¡¯d left George tied up to a big stone back beside the inside-out carcass that was supposed to be a tent. Bob searched, but Bob did not find. The night was turning chilly and the long minutes tramping through the mud were doing nothing for Bob¡¯s mood. No, Bob was fuming. He was seriously considering just going back to the campsite and buying himself another hammer. But Bob was a complete miser. And he¡¯d already bought a hammer. He didn¡¯t see why he should have to pay twice. That hammer had to be around here somewhere. It was probably lying two feet away, nestled silently on a bed of mud, laughing at him. That thought gave Bob an idea. Bob knelt down and put a hand on the ground. He closed his eyes and let his awareness flow out into the surrounding mud. He pushed further and further. It was the trick he''d discovered in his battle with the spider: using the mud as the medium for his mud sense. Spreading himself out this thin over such a large area did cost some mana, but it was still peanuts compared with resisting Newtonian forces. The information he got back was muddled and muddy. He hadn¡¯t quite gotten used to the sensation of feeling through the mud. His mind didn''t automatically categorize the sensory data dump into tidy concepts and familiar objects. He had to manually shift through the sensory fog. It was mostly cold, dark feelings. The strongest signal was temperature. He could feel where the sunlight had pooled across the afternoon and which parts had been in shade. He could even sense gradual variations in altitude. And what was that? In a generally cool area, there was a strangely warm patch. Bob wandered over and reached down. There was the hammer. Still warm from his epic struggle with the pegs. Bob gave a grudging smile; he couldn¡¯t help himself. Sure it had been a bad day, a really bad day. But that didn¡¯t change the fact that Bob was a fricking wizard and had just located an object using magic. Not everything was about fighting and it was good to know that his mud-magic could be useful somewhere. No, Bob thought as he ambled back to camp, he¡¯d been thinking about magic wrong. He¡¯d been all about direct attacks and flashy moves. He was thinking like a fire mage. Bob wasn¡¯t a fire mage. Bob was a mud magician and he had to get into the mindset. He crouched down over the defiant peg. He instinctively moved to bring his right arm forward, but the signal died at the broken nerves in his shoulder. Bob felt anger flaring up again. It was so unfair. But he caught himself. He managed one long breath and that made the next one easier. He couldn¡¯t control what he couldn¡¯t control. Conversely, he could control what he could control. He could control how he responded to circumstances. Bob had lost so much and he couldn''t afford to hobble himself further. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Bob focused on the mud cloak. He breathed slowly in and out. The cloth slithered forward. Bob imagined the cloth coiling around the peg and then pulling fast. Instead the cloak knotted around itself and dragged the peg over. Bob groaned and tried picking at the knot with his one good hand. More work for poor Bob. I knew that was a stupid idea. But then he stopped himself. Think like a magician. Bob pictured the hem of the cloth phasing into true mud and the knot coming undone by itself. The rigid cloth of the hem turned liquid and the knot separated smoothly. At the same time, the main portion of the cloak wrapped around Bob¡¯s shoulders had stayed solid. Bob grinned. Yes, he had yet to secure the peg. Yes, he hadn¡¯t made any progress towards shelter. But learning a new piece of magic was worth celebrating in its own right. Bob hadn¡¯t known his cloak could phase between solid and liquid states until the fight that afternoon. Even then he hadn¡¯t consciously willed the change. All he¡¯d envisioned was the cloak tying itself around the insect¡¯s waist and pulling tight. Sure when he saw the insect preparing to slice the cloak in half, he had hoped something would happen. But it was the cloak itself that had made the decision to phase. Didn¡¯t that mean the cloak was sentient? Or was Bob reading too much into the episode? Maybe the cloak phased out whenever it was in danger of taking serious damage. But what about when the cloak had tangled itself about the insect¡¯s sword arm as the creature made to cut off its own legs? Bob¡¯s memories were a little vague. He¡¯d been on the edge of consciousness. He thought that had been at his explicit direction. Either way it was nice to know that the power was freely accessible to Bob and further that it could be partially applied. Once again, it wasn¡¯t quite a combat ability, but Bob could think up a couple creative uses. Now back to the peg. Let''s just say, it was harder than it looked. Bob had to wrap the edge of the cloth around a five millimeter diameter peg, then twist it together into a knot, all using his imagination. Bob knew for sure that, if he had his good hand available, he would have given up after thirty seconds. The task was just that boring and frustrating. He could already feel the stress getting to him, manifesting as a dull headache and low heartburn. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he didn¡¯t. His cloak would have to stand in the place of his lost appendage. So he struggled on, maintaining his motivation only by the knowledge that if he succeeded, he would be able to give the evil peg a massive wallop on the head with the mallet. He started to make progress around the ten minute mark. That was when he stopped looking at the cloak. He¡¯d trapped himself in something of a feedback loop. He had been trying to move the cloak as though he was driving a car or manipulating a crane. He¡¯d twitch it with his mind, check with his eyes if it was where he thought it should be, and then adjust. Now that isn¡¯t how you move your hand is it? You just know where your hand is at all times. You don¡¯t have to watch your hand to catch an incoming ball. You watch the ball. Bob needed that level of awareness for his cloak. He had to stop thinking of connecting with his cloak as an on-off switch. You didn¡¯t have to make a conscious decision to check in with your foot: left foot on, ah I see the problem, I¡¯ve got a blister on the third toe. No, he needed to be continuously and subconsciously aware of the cloak. He wasn¡¯t going to achieve that in five minutes but committing to the process was the first step. Bob closed his eyes. He shouldn¡¯t need his eyes. He should be able to feel the peg through the cloak. With his eyes closed, he felt blind and helpless. An assessment not far off the truth. But he could feel the peg. He edged the cloak around the object, double and triple checking that he¡¯d maintained contact the whole time. He reached himself (as the cloak) on the other side. So he¡¯d circled the peg. Now he just had to tie the thing off. Or wait a moment, he let the touching edges slide into true mud and then solidified them together. He opened his eyes. He¡¯d made a tight loop around the peg. Magic. "I¡¯ve been looking forward to this for longer than you know," Bob¡¯s grin had drifted into manic territory. He kept his focus on pulling the peg down and straight with the cloak. He gripped the mallet hard and brought it up in his left hand. And then he swung. Bob was right handed and an energetic swing aimed at a small target was a high-difficulty proposition. Suffice it to say, Bob missed. And then he missed again. The peg hadn¡¯t shifted an inch. There was no one to blame. Finally, he had to give up on his jack-hammer swings and make neat taps from a few inches away. So much for righteous justice. But Bob soon forgot the harsh injustices of a cruel world. Don¡¯t we all? He was wrapped up playing with his new toy. He¡¯d said before and he¡¯d say it again, the mud cloak was an absolute marvel. It could take any form he desired. He could melt it and reform it at a thought. The tent-building process received a hefty efficient bump as Bob refined his peg grasping process. Why bother wrapping the firm cloth around the peg? No, use the mud Bob. He could just position a length of cloak over the peg, shift it and after it dripped down and surrounded the peg, shift it back into firm cloth. One instantly secured peg. Bob had started to think of the cloak as his mud arm. His mud arm had a couple serious advantages over his real arm. For one, he didn¡¯t feel any pain when his hammer-swings inevitably missed their bullseye and thumped against where his fingers would have been. For another, it could shift and turn in any direction; he could hover up a small item for closer inspection or pick things off the ground without having to bend down. There were disadvantages. The dullness of sensation through the arm made him clumsy with delicate work. His grasping strategy also had the unfortunate side effect of picking up unwanted things like small stones and dust. Though if he really concentrated, he could expel them from the mud with his mind. He also didn¡¯t have the same level of strength when working through the mud arm. He figured this would all improve with time. After much struggle and many lessons, Bob had erected their tent. It felt like the moment man first discovered shelter. Bob almost burst into tears. But he was too tired and it had really gotten unpleasantly cold in the meantime. Bob collected up the scattered pieces of the old tent, the camp chair and any of the evidence of their presence and lobbed it all inside the tent. Then Bob untied George and shepherded him inside, before ducking in himself and zipping up the flap. Time for some well deserved rest. Chapter 45 - Dark nights of the soul Bob was lying awake in bed. He was wrapped up in a sleeping bag, dressed in his mud cloak. He tried taking the cloak off, but the cloth was as gentle as velvet, as smooth as cream; it was literally the most comfortable thing he owned. The irony of Bob choosing to sleep coated by mud was not lost on our hero. But what evils will man not accept in the name of comfort? Off to the side, he could just make out the arc of George¡¯s shoulders. Bob had bought the dog one of those fluffy dog beds, lined with white wool. A little surprise for the dog. To say George had liked it was an understatement. The dog had been over the moon when the system first materialized the thing out of the air in the middle of the tent. He''d danced around, barked loudly, dragged Bob over to examine the new bed. In all honesty, Bob had been a little worried the dog might bring the whole tent down on top of them. Somehow Bob didn¡¯t trust the guy who¡¯d put up the thing. Lazy son of a gun that one. I heard he "accidentally" collapsed down a tunnel system just the other day. George had good reason to be excited. The new bed was far nicer than the one George had had at Bob''s apartment. Hey Bob was a millionaire. And yes he still hated spending money, but he wasn¡¯t about to stiff his best friend. He¡¯d picked out the nicest bed he could find: ¡°the super, deluxe, premium, luxury (all words that basically seemed to mean expensive) king¡¯s sized bed for man¡¯s best friend.¡± And seeing George¡¯s response, Bob figured the money had been well spent. Hell, the dog might as well live in luxury tonight, since chances were they¡¯d both die tomorrow (pessimistic much?). George had soon drifted off, curled up snuggly in his new bed. Bob had not. And Bob was now watching the dog''s low snoring with a special envy. Because, no, Bob couldn''t sleep. Instead he stared up at the tent ceiling, unconsciously clenching his teeth. There was just too much knocking around in his head, too many unprocessed emotions, too much bitterness and frustration, so much anger swirling around inside. It wasn''t supposed to have gone like this. His right arm felt so alien beside him. He could see the lump of flesh joined to his shoulder, but he had no sensation at all. It might as well have been a weighted chain. He dreaded the morning. He knew he couldn''t escape the fighting. Three''s company was coming for him. That''s what this world was: one grand battle royale, a war of all versus all; there were no laws, no overwhelming social power to compel every man to respect his neighbor, no leviathan. Or in lay-speak, the next time George rushed up to someone in his friendly, gregarious way, he might just find himself getting blasted with the full-force of whatever power that person had. He might just find himself killed on sight. And at the same time, dumb enemies prowled through the plains, monsters who''d hunt down and eat you if they had the slightest opportunity. A happy place, don''t you think? And that''s all assuming the system didn''t just decide to recycle the earth, because no sentient being had lived up to its impossible expectations. That reminded Bob. He ought to check in on the world quest:
Quest: D Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade Time limit - one week Current highest leveled sentient: 7 Remaining Time: 05:21:19:37 Reward: None Penalty: World Recycling
He gaped at the numbers. Somebody was already level 7? How was that even possible? Bob was still level 1. And yes it was hard to know George''s level for sure, but even the slaughter-machine that was the dog couldn''t be above 4, could he? Level 7, Bob gulped, that was the same as the reaper-insect that had crippled Bob''s arm. And sentient and monster levels were definitely not directly comparable. There was such a gap between them already and it had only been one day... After a week, a month, a year?
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 1 (16%) The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Rank: E Wealth: 4,884,100 credits
Robert Brown, lesser human, level 1. Bob felt hopelessly weak. He''d always been weak. It was his destiny, his curse. Luck could only get you so far in the face of strength. In the final reckoning, the strong man always won out. Bob shivered in the warm tent. It had started to rain. The system weather service has said something about that, hadn''t it? 100% accurate weather forecasting. The system had said it was going to rain. And by god, it had started to rain. Humanity used to have to invent gods to explain the erratic and unpredictable behavior of the skies and now the system would give you a minute-by-minute breakdown of temperature, air pressure, humidity, UV and precipitation. And yet Bob felt just as helpless and afraid as his long-dead ancestors had, cowering before the thunder. Bob stared at the tent ceiling. The rain pattered down and slid off to either side. They were safe here, weren''t they? The ceiling was only a foot above his head. He reached up and touched it. One millimeter of material was all that separated them from that rainstorm, that dark night outside. It was a veil, an illusion; danger and death were just as close as ever. They hadn''t escaped, only closed their eyes. The ceiling started to twitch and tremble. No, it was Bob''s hand that was trembling. Stupid Bob. He lowered his hand and tucked it into the sleeping bag. He hadn''t been meant for any of this. Nobody had taught him what to do, how to live. Everything was happening so quickly. It was all too much, too much. How could they ask this of him? Of ordinary, old Bob, with his desk in the corner spot, head-down, eyes on the screen, always overlooked and out-of-mind, of Bob the forgettable, of Bob the nobody... He wasn''t cut out for all this. He just wanted to survive. To take things easy. To read a good novel. How he wished he''d got that copy of Jonny the Man. He could use a distraction, an escape. How long these dark nights of the soul are... He didn''t want the morning to come, but lying there alone with his thoughts, the rain beating mercilessly down on the tent, it was awful. You can''t escape your own mind. It''s always there, waiting for you, ready with another dark thought. In the end, a man always defeats himself. Bob screwed his eyes closed, as hard as he could, like he could blink out the world, harder and harder, so much that it hurt, until he felt his eyes water and he thought his head would explode. And then he opened them again and his eyes happened on George. The dog''s chest rose and fell softly in his steady, night breathing. Bob stretched out a hand and touched George¡¯s head. He just held his hand there, letting a portion of his weight fall on the dog. George didn''t wake; he didn''t stir, but he just purred to himself quietly. The dog was wrapped up in a neat, little ring, his fluffy tail coming round to tickle the brown nose. He''d really liked that new bed hadn''t he? Bob breathed out deeply, focusing on the warm, soft feeling of George''s head beneath his hand. He felt a little better, a shade calmer. Thank you George, he mumbled to himself. Bob had raised the dog all the way from a pup. Bob had always wanted a dog. He¡¯d always liked dogs. They were just about the most honest creatures on planet earth. They might be simple sure, but in a good way, in a way humans can only imagine and aspire to. Treat them right, love them, care for them, play with them and they¡¯ll love you back, one hundred percent of the time. Somehow it doesn''t seem to work that way with humans. George would turn three this year. Three years they¡¯d been together. Only three years, it felt like forever. And Bob was all George knew. He was all the dog had. And despite that, the dog managed to look so, well, happy. It gave Bob a warm, melting feeling to know that, whatever else he''d failed at, he''d somehow managed to make George happy. How Bob thanked his lucky stars that they¡¯d both somehow made it out of the initiation and both somehow been transported together to this middle-of-nowhere grassland. George and Bob, Bob and George. That¡¯s how these things were supposed to be. A man and his dog. And you know, maybe it didn''t really matter how things turned out, as long as he and George weren''t separated. Bob didn''t have to be strong. He didn''t have to know what to do. He didn''t have to have some magic plan. He just wanted to be there for the dog. You and me, George. You and me. ¡°Good night, boy,¡± Bob whispered into the night. He snuggled up in his sleeping bag and his cloak. He closed his eyes and somehow managed to fall asleep.
Bob was shaken awake by, well, the shaking of the tent. Bob sat up. The whole tent was trembling. Even George was awake. Bob could make out his standing outline in the night shadows. The dog started to bark. The dog kept barking. ¡°What is it boy?¡± The rain was coming down hard, but through the noise, Bob thought he could make out a rustling, splashing sound. Bob crawled out of bed and crouched beside the dog. My god it was cold outside of the sleeping bag. Bob had nothing on but his mud-cloak over an undershirt, some underwear and socks. He pulled the mud-cloak tighter around himself. Pop, George¡¯s bed vanished into his storage space. On the verge of danger what was George¡¯s first thought? Secure his new bedding. That made Bob a little happy. The dog really loved that bed. ¡°George, you want to get my sleeping bag too?¡± Bob shook the sleeping bag at the dog, who seemed to get the message. The bag popped away as well. ¡°Cheers George.¡± ¡°What do you want to do, George?¡± I mean the dog was the leader of their duo, wasn¡¯t he? The tent rumbled and shook. Something was going on outside and there are no pleasant surprises in this new world of ours. ¡°Should we go out?¡± George stopped barking. He stood completely still. It looked like he was listening to something. Bob strained his ears to hear. The rustling sound grew louder and louder. The noise echoed around them. It seemed to be coming from all sides simultaneously. Bob gave the side of the tent a speculative prod and the fabric seemed to resist, before bouncing back as soon as he removed his finger. Almost like something was pushing on the other side... ¡°George, don''t panic. But I think there¡¯s something outside.¡± That was when the tent gave. Chapter 46 - Nice Thoughts The tent didn¡¯t give out in one spot, but all over and all at once, like it was the subject of a coordinated attack. The tarp ceiling collapsed down on top of them and cold, muddy rainwater flowed in from all sides. Bob¡¯s vision swam with a sea of wriggling grey text, his brain had exploded, he''d lost his marbles, no, they were system annotations, "Erdz¨¹ngler", all level one and two, but there were, there were, hundreds of them... Bob gulped and toggled off the markers with a thought (didn''t know he could do that). No reason reminding himself just how screwed they were. George on his left let out a bellow of fire and in the flickering red reflections Bob made out little black shapes in the water. Worm-sized, jet black and with mouthfuls of pointy teeth. Heavens save us. Snakes, water, teeth, Bob... Bob¡¯s mind made the connection just in time. He scrambled the mud cloak around his body, extending it all the way down to his feet, just as the surge of little snakes impacted his body. The mud cloak held firm. It was tougher than it looked. But he could feel them inside the cloak, gnawing and chewing at the mud, inching forward. It wasn¡¯t a reassuring sensation. ¡°George, we''ve got to get out of here.¡± Another burst of fire; the water grew uncomfortably warm and Bob heard the hiss of evaporating steam. He threw what was left of the tent off them. The rain battered down. This was bad, really bad. There were hundreds of the little serpents and Bob had only a couple more seconds before they bored right through his cloak and started on flesh. He had to get clear of this water. The water frothed and spat as the evil little snakes mobbed our two heroes. Bob¡¯s body moved. He started off sprinting up the hill; ¡°George, George, this way, up the hill, over here, over here boy,¡± Bob was screaming at the dog. But George was struggling. His fire-breath didn¡¯t work properly in the muddy water. The water drank away all the heat and evaporated off, pulling new snake-infested water into the empty space. He was still slaughtering the animals, but it was a drop in the bucket. He wouldn¡¯t last. ¡°George, get out of there.¡± Pop, the two corpses of the monsters they¡¯d killed yesterday appeared. Good distraction. That dog really thought ahead. I told him those bodies would be useful. A large number of snakes redirected their attention to the fresh meat. In the pale moonlight, Bob froze as he saw the corpses start to visibly shrink in size. Oh my god... Those snakes really didn¡¯t hold back. Maybe they¡¯ll get full and decide to leave George and him in peace. It¡¯s nice to think nice thoughts. The world goes round on nice thoughts, doesn''t it? The corpses had helped some; they''d given Bob and George some breathing room, but they hadn''t turned the tide. Not even close. There were too many snakes, far too many and George was in their midst; he was under attack from all sides; he was about to get overwhelmed. Bob had made better use of the distraction and managed to get clear of the pooled water. Only ten meters up the slope and he was out of the worst of it. Bob looked back and understood now where the water had come from. All the night¡¯s rainwater had drained down into their depression and pooled up there, dammed up against, against Bob''s little, earthen wall. Why in heaven''s name had Bob decided to camp at the bottom of a depression when he knew rain was coming? Bob ground his teeth together. Why in heaven''s name had he decided to build a watertight wall blocking up the only channel for water drainage? Real big brain move that. Big fucking brain. Dammit, dammit, dammit all. Ow! He was distracted from the bitter frustration of recognizing his own stupidity by a stinging pain in his lower abdomen. The first serpent had broken through the cloak. Time''s up. Sharp teeth, soft flesh. Was this the end, boys? Was this the end? Think Bob think. And it came to him in a flash. In one inspired thought. Bob swept the whole cloak off his body and threw it into the air, simultaneously stiffening the cloth so that the creatures were forcibly dragged away from Bob¡¯s vitals. He caught the cloak with his mind and suspended it two feet in the air in front of him. Bob was stone faced. A smear of blood running down his chest. He looked cold, cold and angry. The snakes were wriggling, trying to shimmy their way out of the cloak and fall towards Bob. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Bob concentrated. The cloak shimmered and reformed as a sphere of liquid mud and then, and then, Bob squeezed. He could feel the little bodies resist the pressure. Bob squeezed harder. He felt the moment when the first creature popped, then another, then another, then all of them. He felt the blood and guts seeping out and spilling into the cloak. He didn¡¯t care. He didn¡¯t even really notice. George was down there. George was moaning softly. In the quiet of night, George¡¯s voice tore at Bob¡¯s heart. Bob looked down onto the battlefield. George turned left and right; he was battered by the waters; he was surrounded by those awful monsters. He was still fighting, desperately making for where Bob stood. Now and again, he¡¯d spit out a breath of fire, but they were thin and weak and barely touched the water. He was running on fumes. Even George wasn''t invincible. Of course he wasn''t invincible. George was only a dog. George was only three years old. What the hell had Bob been doing? He''d left George down there alone. Bob had to help him. He had to. Bob almost rushed down then and there. But what could Bob do? What could Bob do down there? Think Bob think. Bob tapped open the system shop. Maybe he could buy something. A weapon. All the weapons are locked, you knew that Bob, think, think. He needed something that could scale. Killing the snakes one at a time would be too slow. There were too many of them. He wouldn¡¯t make it in time. He snapped his fingers: lightning¡ªthose creatures were small, George could handle a shock that would kill or stun the snakes. Quick Bob. Quicker. He flowed through screens and searches and offerings and landed on: a car battery. Would it work? Do I look like a mechanic? But anything was better than doing nothing. He''d roll it down the hill. It''d get short-circuited in the water. The snakes would be stunned. And George would run to safety. The battery wouldn''t explode would it? He''d aim it away from the dog just in case. Bob clicked purchase. "System shop locked during combat." Dammit. Dammit. Bob glared at the dark sky overhead. "I¡¯ll remember this," he spat out through clenched teeth. George was doing his best. He was fighting the good fight. Bob couldn''t believe how clever, how daring, how stubborn the dog was. He''d never seen George like this before. Bob could feel tears on his face. George had started siphoning off large parts of the water into his storage space. The snakes were left behind, suddenly suspended several centimeters in the air. Gravity quickly reasserted itself and they¡¯d all tumble down. But George would follow up by releasing the water and it would torrent out from him, knocking the animals back. It was a good effort. A really good effort. But it wasn¡¯t enough. It wasn¡¯t enough. In the flashes of fire, Bob saw black dots on George¡¯s golden fur and trickles of red. They¡¯d get him. They¡¯d get George. Good old George. He''d lose George. This was the moment. This was the moment when he''d lose his friend. And all because he was weak. Because he hadn''t tried harder. Because he''d been lazy and stupid and hadn''t thought things through. Because he''d wanted to take it easy. And George had given up everything. He saved Bob time after time. He''d been there when Bob needed him. Whenever Bob needed him... And now, Bob looking down, he could do nothing, he was helpless. This was his fault. It was all his fault. He''d lose George and he''d survive. He''d walk away and carry on living. He skulk around, hiding from the memories. He''d just "survive", like he always had, rolling from one day into the next, without ever really committing, drifting through life, simply continuing to exist. George moaned again and Bob shuddered. The tears keep falling down. He couldn''t blink them away fast enough. He sniffed and choked. He couldn''t watch this. He couldn''t stay here. If he was too weak to help, then let him leave this place, let him crawl away like the worm he was and never look back. Because Bob sure as hell wasn''t strong to watch George die right in front of him. That would break him. That would break his heart. "No." The word came out in a steely, cracked voice that Bob didn''t know he had. "No." Again the voice came. "No, no, no!" Bob''s tears dried up. His expression hardened. His vision cleared and sharpened. He looked down over the battlefield with despairing, angry eyes. "Let it break you then. Die here then. Because I won''t go on without George." Yes, yes, what was he thinking? He''d been about to walk away and leave George to die. He''d been about to do it. And why? Because it was easier. Because a lifetime of bad habits had taught him to follow the path of least resistance. But not today. Not today. Today Bob would choose the hard path, the painful one, the bloody one, dark and meaningless and mortal as it no doubt was. He''d choose it all the same. Let it break him. Let him die here. Let them die together. Let them all die. "Death, death, death," the voice chanted, and the words carried, echoing off the water and the hillside. "Death, death, death," the voice came back, distorted and twisted. Bob lowered the viscosity of his mantle and the dead shells all dropped out. He swept it back around himself and reformed it into a cloak. The hood came up and the tail billowed out in the night breeze. The mud reaper stood there on the hilltop and gazed down into the night. It was time for the mud magician to show his salt. Bob had an idea. It was a stupid idea, like most good ideas. But Bob was steel and fire. He wouldn¡¯t lose George. He¡¯d pay any price. He¡¯d bring down the sky over their heads. He''d drown them all in darkness. Chapter 47 - The Mud Magician The rain was beating down over everything, stirring up the soil and turning all to mud. Mud, the great equalizer. The birth and death of civilization. The sleeping darkness. Mud¡ªthe servant of the mud magician, the plaything of the mud reaper, the blood of the earth. Bob, standing on the dark hillside, cloaked in the mantle of living darkness, looked down on the plight of his friend. The black water churned and whirlpooled with the enemies of the mud magician. In their midst, wounded, bleeding, his companion howled piteously, calling for aid. No more, no more, the mud magician has spoken. Bob reached out to the mud of the hillside. He went deep, deeper, into the heart of the earth, feeling his way down into the black, sleeping places, places beyond the light and knowledge of men. Let the surface mud follow. Let the mountains, let the sky, let the night follow. The mud magician swallowed up the whole side of the slope. His brow furrowed and his teeth clenched together at this defiance of natural order. The mud magician bore the resentment, the backlash of power, the terrible, head-splitting pain. The mud magician pulled. There was a groan from deep in the earth. The hillside was calling out in protest. It was resisting. No, the mud magician would not be resisted. The mud magician collapsed to one knee. Blood spilled down from his eyes. The toll of mastery. George was down there. George was down there. Those words sounded over the agony, over the screaming, soul-wrenching pain. The mud magician pulled. And the world turned. And only now was the mud magician¡¯s foresight revealed. Why else set up camp at the bottom of a depression on a rainy night? The ways of the mud magician are beyond the ken of mortals. The ground shifted, the earth growled, it started to slide down, gravity took hold, the hillside was collapsing. Crack. The top levels of earth were torn away and started to rush down the slope. "Behold the power of the mud magician," the words echoed up into the night, like the voice of god himself, just before a dark figure was gobbled under by the rumbling mudslide and dragged down the hill. A whole third of the hilltop had been cut away and was plummeting towards the battleground. A great mud wave, a mud tsunami, the mud apocalypse. ¡°Brace yourself George,¡± Bob managed to shout as he was tossed and turned by the angry mud. A lot of good it would do the dog. The mudflow shuddered down the slope and into their former campsite, drowning everyone and everything. A huge roar of sound and then silence. The night was still but for the drumbeat of rain playing off the darkness. A full minute passed and then another. The silence stretched. Everything was sleeping. Everything was mud. The campsite had been leveled. The gentle hillside sliced into a gaping cliff face. Everywhere was mud. And then, through the stillness, a haggard gasp; mud started to melt away, a hole was forming in the ground, something emerged: a dark figure. The figure of the mud magician. Shaped by his cloak of living darkness. He croaked out a word, but the rain drowned it out. He hobbled forward. He called again and the word whispered through the storm: ¡°George.¡± The mud magician looked weak. He looked weary. His steps were slow and uneven, stumbling. He looked like he¡¯d fall down and sleep forever. ¡°George,¡± the word sounded again through the storm, ¡°George, George.¡± The mud magician stumbled, the mud magician fell, the mud magician lay face-down in the mud. He closed his eyes. His breathing started to steady. His shoulders slumped down. He was asleep. The sleep of mud was on him. And then, and then, all of a sudden, he was awake, pushing himself up, struggling, kneeling on the ravaged battlefield with one hand pushed into the ground: ¡°I see you.¡± The mud rippled and grumbled, something was moving, something was being dragged up, but the mud magician keeled over sideways and there were black circles under his eyes. The ground was still. ¡°George,¡± but the call was like a death rattle, so feeble and trembling that even the wind couldn¡¯t hear. ¡°I¡¯m coming for you George.¡± The mud magician crawled forward in the mud, every inch wrestled away from his body¡¯s agony, his dumb arm dragging limply on the ground. It was painful to watch, painful to see, the mighty mud magician, master of the great mud wave, lord of the mud plains; he was crawling along, stomach smearing across the mud, like some injured worm, like the scum of the earth. ¡°George, hold on George, hold on.¡± Nobody could hear the words. He spoke them for himself, for his own heart and hope. The mud magician reached the spot. There was nobody there. The mud magician started to dig at the ground with his one good hand. Small hand-sized scopes of mud. It would take him all night and all of tomorrow and all the day after. A child with a plastic shovel would have been faster. But the mud magician kept at it, moaning quietly to himself, ¡°George, George. Don¡¯t leave me George. Don¡¯t leave me.¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. After ten minutes, after ten excruciating minutes, the mud magician crumbled just where he lay, without even the strength to roll over. ¡°No, no, listen to me, dig, dig,¡± his good arm hung limply there, he couldn¡¯t move it, he tried and he pulled and he battered himself against his own arm, but he couldn¡¯t move it. ¡°George is right down there. He¡¯s so close. Don¡¯t betray me.¡± The arm was spent, the muscles wasted, too exhausted even to tremble. ¡°George¡­¡± And the voice was broken and weak and helpless. The mud magician lay there. The rain beat down on his back in rolling curtains. Water pooled in the torn up earth. The night deepened. Was it over? Was this the end? He was so close. George was so close. ¡°Help. Help. Somebody help.¡± The great empty expanse of the world. The heavens look down. The heavens look down and see all and do nothing. It wasn¡¯t fair; the mud magician, face pressed in the mud, gritted his teeth and thought those words to himself over and over. It wasn¡¯t fair. It wasn¡¯t fair. He¡¯d done everything he could and more and it wasn¡¯t enough? Why wasn¡¯t it enough? He couldn¡¯t reach his friend, his George, when he was right there. He made another, heartbreaking attempt to dig, but the arm was numb and lifeless and didn¡¯t care for his suffering. He had nothing, he had nothing left. Despair sat over the mud magician and he would not submit, he would not submit, though to keep hope was an endless, impossible torture. George was right there. He was watching. He could see his Bob. And Bob was helpless. The dark figure just managed to turn his head, like he wanted to look away from something. He stared into the hood of his cloak. What was there left to try? All roads lead to death. He stared into the hood of his cloak and the cloak felt warm against his skin, even in that cold and desperate place with the night rain sheeting over him. ¡°Save him please, save him,¡± the mud magician begged, ¡°I know you can. You are my mantle. The mantle of the mud magician. Save him, please; he¡¯s all I have.¡± The cloak stiffened. Had it heard his voice? Would it save George? Could it even? The mantle started to melt away in the falling rain and drain down into the earth. The mud magician lay there. He couldn¡¯t even move his head. He wanted to sleep, but he had to stay awake, he had to see George. He kept his eyes open and watched the rain drops landing in the mud. He listened to the throbbing music of the empty night. He tried to keep his head clear. His mind ached. Everything hurt. Everything burned. But it was good. It kept him present there. He tried to breathe, but the breaths turned into choking sobs. The mud magician lay there, weeping, unable to lift his hand and wipe away the tears that blurred down his face and landed in the mud. The silence and the rain and the desperate sobs of the mud magician. The ground murmured. He was imagining it. Hope, hope in the face of the true death is only madness. The ground murmured again. Was he allowed to hope? Could he really? The heavens wouldn¡¯t betray him? The mud started to fall away, like it was being sucked inside something and a dark shape fountained out, landing just in front of our crumbled hero. ¡°George,¡± he couldn¡¯t see for all the smeared tears. ¡°Drag me over, please, I have to know.¡± The mantle, his mantle, the good cloak, looped around Bob¡¯s shoulders and dragged him forward. Inch by inch. George¡¯s body. Fur matted with mud and dried blood. It was soaked through like he¡¯d been buried in a stream. Bob¡¯s head was on George¡¯s chest. ¡°George, George, old boy, I¡¯m here George, I¡¯ve got you.¡± The dog didn¡¯t respond. Was it too late? No, no, don¡¯t let it be too late. Anything but that. The chest rose slightly. It was shallow, faint, but it was a breath. Bob couldn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t. His whole body was frozen. He had to help. The system interface flashed on. He navigated through with sluggish, winding thoughts, getting confused and lost, and hating himself for every little mistake, every squandered second. There, health patches. Twenty patches pattered down around them. ¡°Put them on him.¡± The mantle wrapped around one of the patches. The grip was awkward, but it managed to stick one lamely to George¡¯s back. The patch slid down and into the mud. ¡°No, no,¡± Bob couldn¡¯t bear it, ¡°the packaging. You have to tear it open.¡± The mantle tried, Bob saw that, it twisted and pulled, but it couldn¡¯t manage it. ¡°The packaging.¡± The mantle couldn¡¯t do it. Was George going to die like this? ¡°My mouth, quick, quick, faster,¡± Bob opened his mouth and the mantle slotted a patch inside, Bob bit down and the mantle managed to tear through the wrapping. ¡°Do it.¡± The patch stuck to George¡¯s back. The dog didn¡¯t respond. ¡°Again, again.¡± Twice, three times, it wasn¡¯t working, but Bob couldn¡¯t stop, he couldn¡¯t accept it, he wouldn¡¯t, he mustn¡¯t. A low whine. ¡°George?¡± Bob felt George¡¯s chest stir. ¡°George, thank god, thank¡­¡± The mud magician slipped away, falling into the deep, dark sleep of the mud. Tears continue to trickle out, pooling under the closed lids and then shimmering down those muddy cheeks. George¡¯s eyes flickered open for a moment; he growled wearily from the back of his throat and then sank back down into sleep. The mantle, the good cloak, stretched over them both, hiding them from the rain, the night and any wandering monsters. The mud magician and his companion lying on the mound of their defeated enemies. Sleeping the sleep of the triumphant, of the victors, of the tired and broken, of the weak and happy. And which is the glory, which is the true name? To bring wanton destruction upon one¡¯s foes, a master of arcane forces, a fell voice on the wind, or to crawl like a worm in the dust, to dig with one¡¯s hands in the mud, all to save one¡¯s friend? How will the mud magician be remembered? Chapter 48 - Harry Mud Bob felt wretched. He groaned. He tried turning to the left, he tried turning to the right, he tried turning on his stomach. It didn¡¯t help. Nothing helped. Bob felt wretched. It was like his whole body was conspiring against him, firing every nerve ending again and again, in a concerted attempt to make him feel as wretched as possible. And then his head. His head was the mastermind and chief antagonist. He had the worst headache of his life. A splitting, shuddering, echoing pain. What on earth was going on in there? Was he dying? He must be dying. Thank god he was dying and it would end soon. How on earth had he managed to sleep through his agony? And how on earth could he go back to that sweet sleep and stay asleep for as long as it took for everything to stop hurting? And Bob hadn¡¯t even been injured. Yes, Bob limped around his memories; he hadn¡¯t even been injured; he should be right as rain, cheerful as sunshine. With great power comes great pain. The old axiom. No, the one who had been in danger was... George. Bob opened his eyes. He didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever managed something more difficult. That dog would be the death of him. The things we do for the people we love. The place was dark and he couldn¡¯t make anything out; he felt cloth on his face and fur under it. ¡°George,¡± he croaked out and his soft pillow started to wriggle away from him; Bob tried to keep the pillow in place with the weight of his head, but the pillow got out from under him and his head knocked down the foot and a half to the ground. Every little helps, the conspiracy of the body gratefully acknowledges your contribution of suffering. The cloth too was pulled aside and happy, bright sunshine shone tactlessly down on the misery of the mud magician. Bob closed his eyes and groaned. Stupid dog. That¡¯s what I get for worrying about him. George had managed to successfully rotate his body (knocking Bob''s head to the ground in the process) and had now come nosing over. The dog curled up beside Bob and started to lick Bob¡¯s unresisting face. Bob slowly, painfully, awkwardly, shuddered his good arm forward, in jolting, broken motions, until he got it onto the dog¡¯s head. ¡°Thanks George.¡± He felt the memories swelling up and his voice cracked, ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re okay, mighty glad.¡± The hand just sat on the dog¡¯s head. Bob couldn¡¯t talk and stroke at the same time. ¡°You did good. Real good boy. I saw you from the hill. You were fighting alone. I couldn¡¯t get there. You¡¯re a clever dog aren¡¯t you? How¡¯d you figure out to use your bag like that¡­¡± Bob was mumbling. ¡°Wanted to help, but too weak George, I¡¯m too weak, not like you George. Look at me now.¡± George barked and Bob managed a half-grimace, half-smile for half a second until the pain broke through and it turned full grimace. Bob moved his hand from George¡¯s head. It fell down and landed on the puddled cloth of his cloak. He dragged the cloak up to his face and smothered his head in it. ¡°Thank you,¡± Bob choked out, starting to sob, ¡°thank you.¡± The good cloak. Bob had been using it like a tool. A prosthetic arm. A raincoat. A weapon. And it was more than that; it deserved better; the cloak was a living thing; it was written right there in the object¡¯s description and it deserved better. ¡°I won¡¯t forget this.¡± He didn¡¯t know how well the cloak understood, but he had to say it anyway. ¡°You saved him and I¡¯ll owe you all the rest of my days. You were my companion before, but I didn¡¯t know it. Now I do. You need a name.¡± Bob eyed the material as though hoping for suggestions, but the cloak lay motionless in his hand like dumb cloth and Bob almost started to doubt yesterday''s memories. It looked so inanimate, an object, a tool. Maybe the cloak had only been following Bob''s magical instructions? He''d certainly imagined the cloak swimming through the mud and pulling George to the surface. But he''d had no mana at all. He shouldn''t have been able to cast a spell. Bob grew puzzled, adding mental discomfort to his physical ones. Remember the three laws of magic, young puddler: the conceivability paradigm, the locality principle and the arcane ledger. Yes but the problem lay in exactly those three laws. He''d apparently cast a spell via the cloak without paying for it. A blatant violation of the arcane ledger. And that wasn''t even the end of it. The conceivability paradigm mandated that he shouldn''t be able to achieve any effect he didn''t understand. Bob had no idea what process was required to convert the mud cloth into liquid mud and back again, and yet somehow that didn''t stop him from performing the action at will. His headache worsened, though that shouldn''t have been physically possible since it was already pushing on the limits of mortal pain. Best to leave deep contemplation on the arcane mysteries to his future self. Setting aside the how, the what of the matter was very clear. The cloak had saved George and that made the cloak family and family needed a name. Ergo, the cloak would have a name. Bob considered for a short while, grew discouraged and then decided he might as well swing: ¡°What about Harry?¡± ¡°Wait, are you a girl or a boy? Oh does that concept make sense to mud? Probably not. Whatever, I like Harry. I used to have a good friend called Harry. Harry the mud cloak. Harry Mud.¡± Bob almost thought Harry rustled in his hand, but maybe it was the wind or his imagination or just a stray tremor through his fingers. Bob arbitrarily decided he''d take that as a shiver of delight at Bob''s wonderful name. "You''re most welcome, Harry." Hell, what did it matter really? Bob was basically just talking to himself here. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. He had two companions and neither of them could talk. The whole time he¡¯d just been blathering on and they¡¯d probably couldn¡¯t understand a word he said. He had a nagging suspicion he might have gone crazy. Wouldn¡¯t it be nice to have someone in the party who could actually talk back? But he was being rude to Harry. ¡°Welcome to the party Harry. Now if you could somehow help me sit up, it¡¯d be much appreciated, I don¡¯t like the feeling of wet mud smooshing into my cheek, but I can¡¯t stand for the life of me.¡± Harry did no such thing unfortunately. But then even George was less than skilled at taking instruction. If you want to get something done right, you''ve got to do it yourself. And so, with great trepidation and many reservations, Bob rephrased the request as a spell. And the spell actually worked and worked without inducing a fit of excruciating pain. That was a load off Bob''s mind. Bob could still use magic. Bob wouldn''t just be a helpless earthworm, writhing on the ground, until some monster came over and squashed him. All praise to the system. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. But just because Bob had been able to cast a spell, did not mean sitting up was easy. Harry followed Bob''s instructions to the letter, but it still was a slow and painful process and Bob regretted many times that he didn¡¯t know how to pass out cold on command. There was a skill worth having. When Bob was finally sitting up, he blinked around, still getting used to the happy sunlight shimmering down from a blue sky. No respect for the wounded. After his eyes adjusted, he gave his surroundings a proper look. The battleground was less than uplifting. Bob¡¯s antics of last night had ravaged the area; the grass was torn up, stirred about and thrown around; the pleasant, rolling slope was shorn and its black innards spilled out. ¡°I really did on the number of the place didn¡¯t I?¡± Bob shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I like these new changes,¡± surveying the field of mud and mud puddles, ¡°it doesn¡¯t feel... what''s the word, ah that''s it, homely.¡± He groaned; his body seemed to be able to sense that he was complaining and had duly upped the punishment. He saw white things piled up around his waist. They must be the leftover health patches. Maybe they have a numbing property. Bob tore one open between his good arm and his canines and slapped it against his neck. The intoxicating warmth spread out and diffused around his body. The body reluctantly accepted this peace offering and dialed back the pain. It hadn¡¯t vanished, but it had turned into a full-body ache, down from your-own-personal-torturer. Wow I wish I had thought of that earlier... Bob followed up with two more. You can''t have too much of a good thing, can you? At the end of it all, Bob was starting to feel something like human. His head had cleared a little and he got a better look at the dog. He started to laugh. ¡°George, I think you might need a bath.¡± There wasn¡¯t much gold left on the golden retriever. Bob wondered if the dog had earned his own Mud Monster achievement. Because George was caked in the stuff. The wet mud of the mud slide had now dried in the warm, morning sunshine and had solidified along every strand of George''s fur. The dog looked like he''d been partially entombed. ¡°Was that what I looked like during the tutorial? George, on second thought, you know, I think it suits you. Fitting, for the companion of the mud magician. Harry, what are your thoughts?¡± The cloak deadpanned. Bob interpreted that as agreement. ¡°George, I think we have consensus here.¡± The dog barked nervously and his mud-encrusted whiskers bobbed up and down. He whined a little and started to shake his mud-encrusted tail. Bob patted the dog¡¯s head. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll clean you up later.¡± Bob had noticed the little red icon over his notifications after taking the health patch, but he¡¯d put off opening them. Bob had mixed feelings. Sure it might be something good. A new spell, achievement or just general congratulations on a masterful execution of an inspired plan. Or it might be something bad. Bob didn¡¯t want to spend any time imagining exactly what kind of bad things the system might cook up. He had strong evidence that the system could read a man¡¯s thoughts and he didn¡¯t want to give the system any ideas. Still he¡¯d have to find out eventually, so what was the point in delaying? Proof by futility. That''s the strongest argument I know. He clicked open the first message:
Congratulations: Level up 1 - > 2 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to intelligence assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to intelligence assigned Minor decrease to constitution assigned
"Finally. Does a man have to destroy half the landscape to get his first drop of experience? I can''t help but think you''re setting a bad precedent here, system. Surely you don''t want to encourage this behavior?" Bob must have leveled up during the fight. There hadn¡¯t been any glowing acknowledgement or insta-heals. You know, something that might have helped him. That was a little disappointing, but progress was progress.
Congratulations: Level up 2 - > 3 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to intelligence assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to intelligence assigned Minor decrease to constitution assigned
Congratulations: Level up 3 - > 4 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to intelligence assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to intelligence assigned Minor decrease to constitution assigned
Congratulations: Level up 4 - > 5 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to intelligence assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to intelligence assigned Minor decrease to constitution assigned
Bob was on a roll. Bob was on fire. Four levels in a single evening. He was level five now. ¡°Thank you, thank you very much. I¡¯d like to thank my parents, my teachers and of course, my good friend and continual companion, George Brown. Where are you, George?¡± The dog perked up and gave a low yelp. Bob was no beginner mud mage anyone. No level 1 scrub. He was a level 5 magician. A wielder of the mystic arts. And any doubters should take a peep at what was left of the hillside. And of course, the famous system randomness. Every positive boost had gone to intelligence and every decrease gone to constitution. That sure looks random to me. Was the system trying to tell him he was stupid? Don''t jump to conclusions Bob. I''m sure the system is trying to help (who are you and how did you get inside my head?). Intelligence was usually related to spell casting. In that case, wasn¡¯t it exactly the stat he would have chosen to increase himself? No, Bob would have gone for wisdom. If stats were broader than pure spell-power, but actually affected the base attribute, Bob needed all the wisdom, read common-sense, he could get his hands on. And his intelligence had come at what cost? Four hits to his constitution. As though he didn''t face near-death experiences every day already. It really felt like the system wanted Bob dead.
Achievement: Indiscriminate The more the merrier. Launch a single attack that damages yourself, your allies and your enemies, and kills over 95% of targets. Effect:
"Not the achievement I would have asked. What about ''hero of final resort''? Or ''angel of self-sacrifice''?" The system had probably penalized him for including George in his attack. Like his intentions hadn''t been crystal clear... The effect was questionable. He''d have to intentionally target his allies to trigger the damage boost. And then a minor decrease to wisdom... What? Oh no, the system had finally done it. Why had Bob doubted his instincts? The system was out to get him. He had to remember that. All of those level-ups had lulled him into a false sense of security. Feeling the weight of cruel destiny, he opened up his stat sheet. Chapter 49 - Mud, Death and Suffering "No..." Bob fell to his knees and gazed appeasingly up to the heavens. "Forgive me," he called out to the unforgiving world, he asked for mercy, he begged for it. But by the time man decides to pray, it''s already too late. The system had managed its long-term ambition. It had hit Bob right where it hurt, in his wisdom teeth. And Bob couldn''t even complain. Bringing down a mudslide on top of yourself, your companion and a host of enemies surely demonstrated a lack of the thing we call "wisdom".
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 5 (72%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,881,400 credits Stats:
"Wisdom - worm". What did that even mean? Did he have the wisdom of a worm, or was worm meant as an adjective describing something small, insignificant and wretched? Or wait, was the system alluding to his humiliating crawl to the spot where George had been buried. Sure it had been rather worm-like, but what had he been supposed to do. Low blow, system, low blow. Hit a man when he''s down will you. Chin up here Bob. Chin up. The system is watching you. If you let the system know it bothers you, it will just get worse. Good advice, though probably given too late, since he was already on his knees, begging for mercy, but it was worth a shot. ¡°Illuminating intelligence. What can I say? I''m a genius. And look at that, I¡¯m almost at level 6. Child''s play.¡± Bob spoke unnaturally loudly and in an artificial, jarring voice that wouldn¡¯t have convinced a toddler. ¡°Good haul. Good haul all round. Not bad for a night¡¯s work.¡± Bob gave a side-glance up to the sky, as though he might be able to read the expression of the heavens. No, the heavens were just as impervious and heartless as he remembered. Bob had reached level five. He was one of the big boys now. The only cost, aside from severe bodily agony, a limp arm and the devastation of Bob¡¯s capital city, was wisdom. And what do they say? Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. No need to wonder what happened to our philosopher kings then. So how did Bob line up against the world leaders:
Quest: D Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade Time limit - one week Current highest leveled sentient: 6 Remaining Time: 04:14:43:22 Reward: None Penalty: World Recycling
Ha, only level 6. Bob was one away from the greats. Sounds about right. Nobody messes with the mud magician. ¡°George, what level are you?¡± Bob put the question to the dog. The dog responded like a dog. He barked and wagged his tail. Fair play. Bob tried to reckon it backwards to himself. George had probably been high 3 or low 4 before their night adventure. And while Bob had done most of the massacring, George had certainly boiled a couple dozen snakes to death with his fire. He¡¯d have to be in the fives, wouldn¡¯t he? Five or just on the cusp. Wow, from Bob¡¯s perspective, the two of them had been bumbling along, making every possible mistake, tripping into every awkward situation; Bob imagined Death was sitting somewhere, eyes glued to the screen, huffing and groaning, so close, so close, I had em. And yet objectively speaking, they both sat at a cool level 5, just shy of the world leaders. ¡°George, you¡¯re a legend.¡± He patted the dog, and in a quieter voice, ¡°And so are you Bob.¡± But wait a moment, when he''d checked the quest last night, he distinctly remembered seeing that the highest leveled sentient had been level 7. Bob let that fact sink in. Last night the highest leveled individual on earth had been level 7 and this morning the highest level individual on earth was level 6. Bob had learned just about enough mathematics to put two and two together. In other words, Bob hadn¡¯t been the only one to have a bad night. Some try-hard, glory-hog had bitten the dust. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Bob put his hands together in prayer: thank you for your noble sacrifice in your valiant though futile efforts to save us, we weak, helpless citizens, from the world recycling. Rest in peace. That out of the way, Bob was free to start worrying. Because the current leader was only level 6. Bob and George were both around level 5. Bob and George, I mean come on, those clowns. What were the chances this current leader wouldn¡¯t get cut down in turn? Bob¡¯s master plan of free riding on the coattails of danger-seeking maniacs was suddenly in jeopardy. And if nobody managed to reach level 10 by the end of the week¡­ There were only five days left. Bob did a double-take and poked at the system overlay. Why did it say four days? Looks like there was a reason Bob felt as passable as he did. He''d spent over twenty-four hours lying unconscious on the hillside. It was a miracle they hadn''t been killed there. Or rather they had Harry to thank for that. "Thank you Harry. Looks like we owe you even more than I realized." A mud cloak against a landscape of mud proved to be effective camouflage. Obvious maybe, but we tend to overlook the obvious things. That was a strategy worth remembering. A whole day had gone by, Bob mused, that meant his contract with three''s company had expired. A fact he confirmed via his contracts tab. Those guys were probably out hunting for him right now. And Lad for one had seemed pretty confident in his tracking abilities. Wait, why hadn''t they found him already? Maybe the mud cloak had foiled them. Or maybe they''d seen the devastated landscape and decided Bob was dead as dead. Or maybe they just hadn''t gotten around to it yet? End on a happy thought, Bob, that''s the way. Bob had a lot to think about. A lot to process. He''d have to decide what he was going to do moving forward. He''d have to decide who he wanted to be. But not right now, right now, Bob needed some breakfast. He was battle-weary and battle-sore and hadn¡¯t eaten or drunk anything in over twenty four hours. ¡°George, breakfast. I can¡¯t be bothered to go fetch your food from the bathroom. I¡¯ll just buy you something else.¡± Bob didn¡¯t have to worry about the weight restriction this time, so he picked up something a little nicer, with meat chunks and real ingredients. The dog had surely earned it. He also purchased another bowl. A bright, red, plastic one. The bowl and tin dropped down in front of them. Bob sandwiched the tin into the armpit of his dead arm and managed to peel off the metal covering. He poured the brown, gooey substance into the bowl. George rushed over. Two pops and George¡¯s original bowl and the earlier box of dog food appeared. ¡°I thought I put that high up on the counter where you couldn¡¯t reach.¡± George wagged his tail. ¡°I don¡¯t know how it makes me feel to be outsmarted by you.¡± Bob shook his head. ¡°Hey! I bet you waited until I¡¯d already bought you another one, before bringing it out, didn¡¯t you? Tricky customer.¡± Bob resigned himself to pouring out a second bowl for the dog. George started happily on his two-course, mud-themed meal. Bob really had to give that dog a bath somehow. He looked like a subterranean creature. Bob began to browse for himself. There was a good selection. You couldn¡¯t fault system takeout. Bob wondered if there was some low-wage worker on another planet cooking the stuff. The ingredients were largely unfamiliar, but the pictures and descriptions gave a man enough to work with. He found what was practically a fish and chips shop and ordered himself a large fillet. It popped out of the air in a cardboard box and spilled all over the floor. Wasn''t ready, was I? He¡¯d leave that one for George, Bob decided. This time Bob readied himself. He mentally clicked "order". The cardboard box appeared in front of him and fell neatly into the cradle of his outstretched arm. Bob¡¯s plans always worked out. Sometimes he felt sorry for other, less-fortunate folk. He set the box on his knees and popped open the lid. Now we are talking. A large fried fillet in a golden, crispy batter, nestled on a small-mountain of yellow chips. It was good too. The fish wasn¡¯t exactly white inside. More of a bluish, grey. Maybe it wasn¡¯t even a fish at all. But it had the right consistency. And a spot of lemon juice gave the thing a nice, acidic tang that really complimented the batter. Bob put away the whole thing and sighed contently. Maybe, and he gave this praise with every reservation, just maybe there were a few peaks of post-system living. The food had helped restore Bob¡¯s spirits a little. The pain hadn¡¯t disappeared, but it had reminded him that life wasn¡¯t just mud, death and suffering. George staggered over. He¡¯d finished his two full bowls and managed to polish off three-quarters of the fish and chips that had fallen to the ground. Needless to say, the dog didn¡¯t look so good. ¡°Maybe you didn¡¯t have to scoff down every last fry?¡± Bob chided. George, attracted by the noise, sort of swayed over, bumping gently into Bob. The dog opened his mouth¡­and hurled his breakfast all over the poor man. ¡°What the¡­¡± Bob crawled back as the dog started hacking up the last of it. ¡°Dammit George, I¡¯m covered in the stuff.¡± Mud, sick and suffering. Bob looked at himself. Bob smelled himself. Cleanliness was an ideal. And man could only aspire. Bob gave George the evil eye. ¡°Why the hell you have to come all the way over here just to throw up on me? Second time in as many days. You''ve got a problem George.¡± George whined. ¡°Ah man,¡± he patted the dog on the stomach (from as far away as he could), ¡°you¡¯ll be fine George, you just ate too much. What did you think would happen if you ate three times your usual portion.¡± The dog was lying on the ground, groaning, but lapping tentatively now and again at the puddle of sick. ¡°George, sometimes I forget you¡¯re just a dog.¡± Bob left George to his seconds. He needed to do something about his personal hygiene. Thankfully Harry had taken the brunt of the blow. ¡°Harry, let''s clean you up.¡± Bob shifted the cloak into its liquid form and the sick trickled through and splattered on the ground. Bob proceeded to put ten paces and the spot. Much better. In a perfect world, he''d have liked to jump into a hot shower, but he didn''t quite see how that could be managed in the wilderness. They''d just have to keep their eyes open for a stream. Bob needed a chair, a thinking chair. The last one had been lost to the night attack, so he just purchased himself another. At the same, he got himself a warmer shirt, a pair of trousers, some new socks and shoes (velcro so he could put them on with one hand). Being obscenely wealthy really did simplify some things. Feeling significantly more comfortable than he had done, he plopped himself down in his chair and put on his thinking cap. What''s the plan Bob? Chapter 50 - The time has come Bob stroked his chin fluff, mud mantle draped around him, hood up and slouched in a green camping chair. "The time has come," Bob mumbled to himself, "the time has come." He stroked his chin again and repeated the words: "the time has come." The hood had fallen a little too far down and was partially blocking out his vision. He tapped it up and said again: "the time has come." He fell into a daze for half a minute and then suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, "the time has come," a breath of space passed and then in a deep, rolling chant, "the time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things, of shoes and ships, and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings." "Dammit Bob this is no time to be quoting Alice in Wonderland to yourself." "Sorry, sorry, it''s good stuff though, isn''t it?" "Sure, very creative¡ªoh no you don''t, don''t change the topic on me." Bob slouched back down into the chair. Something about the modern lifestyle makes it absolutely repellent to the modern individual to sit silently and just think. Somewhere along the way, we lost that ability, along with how to squat, how to walk barefoot, or how to comfortably fast for extended periods of time. Yet sitting and thinking and planning were exactly what was required of our hero at the present moment. Bob got to work. Four days. Four days left and the system swoops down and kills everyone. That is unless some champion emerges and reaches level ten before the time limit. Bob had been walking around taking that outcome for granted, but now he had his doubts. It wasn''t as easy as in the video games. The lack of respawning really did put a damper on things. Not to mention every level was harder than the one before it. And the high level monsters were truly terrifying adversaries. One mistake, one night ambush, one misjudged enemy and another champion would bite the dust. Did the fate of the world rest on Bob¡¯s shoulders? He was the lord of the earth, wasn¡¯t he? It was his duty, his obligation, his destiny. He ought to be that champion. Bugger off. Bob didn¡¯t care a fig for any of that. He was no saint. He was passably moral, maybe, you know, in an everyman sort of way. He paid his taxes didn¡¯t he? Remember all the gods together had to force the mantle of the sky on poor Atlas. That¡¯s practically a divine parable of responsibility evasion. He sure wasn''t about to take that weight on voluntarily. Unfortunately, Bob and his companion George both happened to be residents of this blue planet. The blue planet on the chopping block. Could Bob do it? Could Bob be earth''s champion? Maybe he could do it. He was stronger than he had been, wasn''t he? He''d massacred hundreds of worm-snakes in a single blow. He was level five, wasn''t he? And he had the fire-breathing George at his side. Sure, true, Bob had pulled off a bit of coup with the mudslide. But those circumstances weren''t exactly reproducible. He''d have to lure an enemy onto low ground. He''d need a rain storm, a steep slope, a small mountain of mud. And even then, some monsters would probably still survive. That level 9 unicorn-beetle, for example, could probably have tanked the attack. Of course, there was also the small matter that Bob would be knocked out for a full day from overdrawing his mana. Not exactly a full-proof combat strategy. In short, wasn''t Bob just as weak as before? Weaker maybe. He shifted his shoulder forward and watched the dead arm pendulum back and forth. Those level ups had only impacted his luck and intelligence, while his constitution and wisdom had actually been debuffed. If anything, wasn''t he even more weak and fragile, even more likely to blunder into some dead trap, than he had been this morning? That thought struck home. Bob was still weak. He was still weak. He might have survived the night attack. He might have saved George this time. But he was still just as weak and helpless as he''d always been. And the next time, what would happen the next time, or the time after? Somehow he''d tricked himself into thinking he''d gotten stronger. But it wasn''t true. Dammit Bob, when are you going to stop lying to yourself. "I''m weak," he whispered the words like he was afraid somebody was listening. Not quiet enough though, because he heard them and they seared into him. He was weak. And the fate of the weak is to suffer. Earth''s champion? Don''t make me laugh. What had given him that absurd idea? Bob was destined to be cut down helpless and begging for mercy so he could be a stepping stone for some bigger man. And George would die there with him, guarding the fallen body of his master. That was their fate. They might be able to hide for a while, to cheat death for a time, but death was coming. Death had his eyes on them already. Death was already close beside. Bob replayed those moments on the hillside, even as they hurt him, even as he felt his insides burn and twist, and the anger and dread shudder through him; he watched George scramble and flounder, he heard George whine and call out, caught in the deadly, snake-filled waters, he felt that bitter hopelessness, he remembered almost leaving the dog there. Bob had almost done that. Bob had almost abandoned his friend. Why? Because he was weak. Not just in his physical strength or in his magic, but in his heart, because his first instinct was always to choose the easier way. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Bob felt a slow fire, kindling inside him. Good, good. He was glad he''d almost betrayed his friend. He was glad every sentient was out for his blood. He was glad the system held the world in its fist and was threatening to squeeze. He was glad he¡¯d lost his arm. He was glad for it all, for these misfortunes, for this suffering and danger. This was what he needed. This was how he would change. Because he would change. He would grow stronger. And the next time his friend called, he''d answer. He smiled at the dead arm. This here was his reminder, his lesson in the truths of our new world and he''d have to carry it around with him to the end of his days. Good, good. Every jolt of pain, every little inconvenience, they were all reminders of this determination, of this truth. He wouldn¡¯t be allowed to forget. Some men are made by their good fortune, and others, others are made by their misfortune. "The time has come," Bob rose up from the camp chair, "the time has come." George snapped up and trotted over. "Let us make a name for ourselves in this land." Bob reached down and ran his fingers through the dog''s muddy fur. Strength is a choice. And Bob had made his choice. Getting by wasn''t enough any more. Just surviving wasn''t worth it. Bob had decided he was going to be stronger. Yes, because he had the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Yes, because if no one reached level 10, the world and everyone in it would be ¡°recycled.¡± But more than any of those, he didn¡¯t want to feel weak. He couldn''t, no he wouldn''t, stand and helplessly watch George die. The time has come. Bob turned to face George. "I should''ve done this a long time ago. But I''m doing it now." George stopped and stood gravely to attention. "George give me your stick." George tried to act nonchalant, but Bob could see the request had shaken him. George pretended he hadn''t understood. "George, your stick." George shuffled a little in place, before: pop; the stick appeared in George''s mouth. "Drop it." George held on to the stick. "Drop it, George." George whined a little out of the side of his mouth, but he released the stick into Bob''s mud hand. The cloak gripped the stick and flipped it over, storing it at Bob''s hip, like it were a sheathed blade. Bob stood himself up to his full height. He squared his shoulders. He stared regally off into the distance. He addressed the dog, standing to attention, in serious, imperative tones. ¡°Noble squire, George Brown. Will you swear an oath of fealty to your lord and master, Viscount Robert Brown.¡± Bark. ¡°Very well. Then repeat after me: Hear me, ye heavens and earth,¡± Bark, Bark Bark. ¡°I, George Brown, first of his name,¡± Bark, Bark Bark, Bark of his Bark. ¡°Do swear by my stick¡± Bark Bark, excited bark. ¡°To bind myself in my lord¡¯s service,¡± Sustained barking. ¡°To be his shield and guardian,¡± Bark. ¡°To be his companion and advisor,¡± Bark. ¡°To ride into battle with unwavering determination,¡± Bark. ¡°For my lord¡¯s banner shall be my banner.¡± A few half-hearted whines. ¡°And my lord¡¯s victory my victory.¡± A long drawn out whine. ¡°Then I, Viscount Robert Brown, Lord of Earth, The Brown Emperor, The Mud Magician, anoint you Sir George, knight of the first rank. May you serve your master well and uphold all oaths sworn here today.¡± Reaching out with his mud arm, Bob gently tapped the stick on one side of the dog¡¯s shoulder and then on the other. George gazed longingly at the stick throughout the ceremony. When Bob stretched it out for George to take, he chomped happily down and puttered off to gnaw on the thing.
Skill: Retinue - Viscount (Service) Appoint sentients to your retinue. They will be granted a title and gain all corresponding benefits. Members of your retinue must swear an oath of fealty. Limit:
Bob didn''t know why he''d held off on anointing George as his knight. It''s not like he''d had anyone else in mind. It was just... Well he hadn''t chosen to become a viscount and he''d sort of hoped he might be able to give it all up at some point and go back to being ordinary Bob. But those days were long past. Ordinary Bob had abandoned George last night. Ordinary Bob was curled up somewhere in the fetal position, crying himself to sleep. Ordinary Bob was dead. This Bob. This new Bob, he''d steeled himself. He''d chosen. Ping!
Achievement: A Knight of One''s Own So you found someone willing to follow you. It would be a little bit more impressive if it wasn''t your dog. Acquire your first knight retainer Effect: A minor bonus to will
Good the ritual had succeeded. Bob had been little worried the system wouldn¡¯t acknowledge the dog¡¯s barking repetition as a binding oath. But Bob guessed the dog¡¯s whole-hearted agreement must have shone through despite linguistical limitations. Now what did this knight title do? ¡°George,¡± the dog looked up but didn¡¯t come over. ¡°My apologies. Sir George.¡± The dog grinned excitedly and trotted up, tail wagging. ¡°Sir George, my noble and honored knight, you wouldn¡¯t mind telling me what the knight title does would you?¡± Woof! ¡°That¡¯s about what I thought.¡± Bob reckoned he wasn¡¯t about to get any more details. It didn''t really matter. They both knew what came next. The price of strength is paid in blood. There was no point getting squeamish about it. No running from the fact of the matter. The system made these things very clear. The world was a zero-sum game. You kill someone and you get stronger. Someone kills you and they get stronger. And Bob was going to have kill a whole lot of someones. "Yes," Bob muttered to himself, as the two of them stalked out on the plains, "the time has come. The hour of the mud magician and the golden knight." Chapter 51 - Old Friends Bob was striding through the grasslands, George trotting along at his side. Where are the enemies? Where are the monsters? He peered left and right, shading his eyes against the noon sunlight. Gone was his old caution, his crippling fear, he wanted to fight. He wanted to test himself. He wanted to level. This was the path to strength. There, he sent Harry shooting forward. A level three Raupenflieger was perched on a stem of grass a couple feet away. Level three was the highest he''d seen so far, though to Bob''s untrained eyes, the creature just seemed a good deal fatter and with more intricate wing designs. It wasn''t a danger to him any longer. Before the creature could so much as take off, the cloak had folded over it in one smooth motion and pulled taut, effectively trapping the caterpillar-butterfly inside. Bob knew what to do next. This was either the best or worst part of fighting Raupenflieger depending on your perspective. He squeezed. The creature''s body resisted the pressure until, until, it couldn''t. Bob sensed the imminent implosion and cracked open a little escape chute in the cloak''s exterior. There it was. The disgusting and yet sort of intriguing sensation as the caterpillar went pop. A stream of acid and smoke jetted out of the little opening and landed harmlessly on the ground a few feet away, melting through the grasses. Melting through the grasses? That looked a good deal more potent than the level 1 they''d first splattered. It was a good thing Bob hadn''t gotten any on his skin. Even George had learned to leave the carcass juices alone by now. Pain is the great teacher. Raupenflieger acid, however, only affected organic substances, making it completely useless against Harry Mud. The cloak had turned out to be something of a god of death to these little creatures. Harry would sweep out of the sky, blink out the sun, and mercilessly crush the little insects until destruction. The operation was almost automatic for Bob and Harry at this point. That must have been the seventh or eighth Raupenflieger they''d encountered so far. Now that they were actually looking for monsters, they found the annoying insects everywhere. The insects gave almost no worthwhile experience to their level 5 hunters, but it was good practice for Bob. His control over Harry had skyrocketed. He''d set the foundation during his tent building, when he''d stopped thinking of the cloak as a tool to control and more like a replacement for his lost arm. But capturing moving targets in a high-pressure, low-risk situation had really helped him solidify those gains. He still couldn''t quite manipulate the cloak instinctively like he could his real arm, but the results spoke for themselves. The trick, he''d found, was to give up on trying to nail any movement on the first try. That isn''t how we control our bodies. Instead he strove to maintain a continuous, conscious connection with the cloak throughout any complex actions. Then he''d make numerous small corrections as the action proceeded, guaranteeing that the cloak stayed on vision. These insights had made him infinitely more adaptable, because he could effectively react in real time to any changes. Say for example like a Raupenflieger dodging his first attack and buzzing straight for him. That hadn''t happened of course. It was a hypothetical, a thought experiment if you will. And of course, there was no way he''d panicked, tripped over and taken a splattering to the face. Why then had he bought an extra tub of Raupenflieger Squasher cream, you ask. Well, what business is it of yours; it had been purely precautionary purchase, thank you very much. You can''t exactly be too well prepared, can you? Anyway, implausible hypotheticals aside, Bob could now the face the little buggers with something like self-assurance. Bob had decided to kept George in reserve. A decision Bob''s knight did not approve of. But honestly George hardly needed more practice with that fireball. He had proved himself depressingly adept at destroying things. And seeing the hill go up in flames would only attract unwanted attention. George was Bob''s ace in a hole, and when they met a properly dangerous enemy, Bob would not hesitate to call on the dog. And where were these dangerous enemies? Bob wringed out any lingering fluids from Harry, swept the cloak back on and started moving. The whole exchange had hardly taken a minute. Yes, where were these dangerous enemies? Couldn''t a man get a good fight when he wanted one? Imagine planet Earth getting recycled because her champion simply couldn''t find enough high-experience monsters to dispatch. That would be just unfair. Bob would have to lodge a serious complaint against the system if this monster dearth continued. He''d have to take legal action. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Sure Bob enjoyed practiced his mud manipulation finesse as much as the next man. He knew he still had a long way to go before mud mastery. But sometimes you want a challenge thrown in. Experience, a level-up, something to keep the motivation high. Low-key serious, you know, like an elite guard before a mini-boss. They''d been wandering around for forty-five minutes now and only found those obese caterpillar-grenades. That was always the way. You stop finding things as soon as you start looking for them. Tut, tut, tut. Snap. Bob''s mind flashed with unendurable pain. He almost lost consciousness right on the spot. He felt himself starting to topple over to the right. He heard George''s barking from far away. He looked down and saw two rows of three-inch teeth stabbing into his right arm. He didn''t remember those being there before. That was the system annotation arrived (thank you kind system): "Wiesenkriecher (lvl 6)". Isn''t it nice when our wishes come true? The teeth connected to a v-shaped snout and the v-shaped snout connected to a cruel-looking face with beady eyes and slitted ear holes; behind the face was a three-meter long grass crocodile, its back a veritable meadow of tall grasses that blended perfectly into the surrounding greenery. An ambush predator. The jaws scissored forward, clamping down even harder and trying to cut straight through the arm. Bob screamed. It felt like he was being eaten alive. Scratch that, he was being eaten alive. Thankfully he''d been wearing his mud cloak and his mud cloak had immediately stiffened on first impact, preventing the wicked ambush from slicing his arm off then and there. Harry at least had been paying attention. But that was where the good news ended. Bob was having trouble even seeing through the pain, let alone thinking up some clear counterstrategy. Magic required a particular kind of intense focus that was difficult to muster up when a bloody crocodile was chewing through your arm. Hell Bob would give the damn animal the arm if it would just piss off. He felt himself going into shock. Just looking at his bloody, tattered arm sandwiched between that awesome jaw and those white fangs was making his head spin. You are the mud magician. You are the mud magician. That haunting voice of the hilltop at night. That steely, menacing voice. You are the mud magician. The mud reaper. The master of the sleeping darkness. Bob''s mind cleared. He felt brutally cold like he''d lost all sensation in his body, like he was manipulating a game character and not his one and only soul. Harry melted off the rest of Bob''s body and streamed into the crocodile''s jaw, layering around the thickest part of Bob''s arm in an attempt to leverage the crocodile''s mouth open. The jaws cracked open an inch, but the crocodile doubled down on its bite, straining every one of its jaw muscles to rip through Bob''s arm. They stalemated for half-a-second and then the jaws inched closer together. Bob was losing the battle for strength. He was always the weaker. Those monstrous jaws were vicing slowly down. He''d lose the arm. He''d crumble on the ground and the monster would go for the neck. He had to stop fighting like he thought he was superman. Fight smart Bob. Bob reshaped the cloak''s internal layer into a maze of prickly spikes, solidifying the tips with layers of hardened mud and then he gave back. The jaws clamped down, overwhelming Bob''s weakened defenses, clamped down and impaled themselves on the spikes. The crocodile shuddered, its eyes widening and growing bloodshot, the jaws springing open, recoiling instinctively from the sharp objects. Now, Bob thought, trying to swing his limp arm away using his shoulder muscles. Crack! Bob moaned. The crocodile''s jaw had slammed down again with all the extra force of momentum. What was wrong with the creature? Blood trickled down from the crocodile''s mouth, its own blood, spilling out of many holes made by Harry''s barbed defenses. That had to hurt. But the crocodile didn''t budge. What a stubborn asshole. It had decided to double-down on its first approach. Just perfect. And what the hell was he supposed to do now? Pop, a familiar blade appeared in Bob''s left hand. The system dagger. My old friend. "Thanks George," Bob mouthed through extricating pain; "Sir George," he corrected himself. The dog had finally calmed down enough to start helping. Thank the heavens. Naturally that fire breath had been out of the question. Oh it would have killed the monster, it just would have killed Bob alongside with the monster. And Bob was powerfully grateful George had managed to figure that much out by himself. No, George''s first response, typical canine, had been to try to bite his adversary. Tragically, the crocodile''s skin was covered in an armor of overlaying scales and George''s measly bite didn''t even make a dent. The dog had probably hurt himself more. But now the dog had finally started thinking. Bob twisted the dagger round and start stabbing at the creature''s snout. The blade jarred backwards, foiled by that natural armor. Cheating motherfucker. Well I know one spot that''s nice and squashy. He swung at the creature''s eyes. The crocodile had an impressively long snout and its eyes and ear slits stood all the way at up the top. He couldn''t reach. Why''d I have to have such short, scrawny arms? He''d couldn''t quite reach, but it was close. Only a couple millimeters. If he could just... Bob leaned forward, grimacing as he torn his own shoulder open against the crocodile''s teeth; the blade rose and fell, hiss... the eye looked like it had deflated, yellow pus and blood trickled slowly down like some hideous tear. The crocodile staggered unconsciously backwards a step, dragging Bob with him, the jaws clamped down just as hard as before. "Why, won''t, you, let, go?" Bob made an attempt on the other eye, but the crocodile had decided drastic times called for drastic measures: the death roll. Chapter 52 - Human Intelligence The crocodile had Bob by the arm. Bob had the crocodile by the eyeball. Needless to say they both felt like shit. George was nearby, barking, running around, making a nuisance of himself, but unable to aid Bob in a non mutually-assured-destruction way. No, this was a duel. Bob and the crocodile would have to duke it out by themselves until the superior fighter emerged over the broken and bloodied corpse of his antagonist. Bob played his last card. He lunged at the crocodile''s remaining eye with a backward stab of his left hand, using his trapped arm as a sort of pivot. That naturally meant he was off-balance, right arm immobilized in the crocodile''s mouth, left arm swinging wildly towards the remaining eye, feet out of position, at exactly the moment the crocodile played its last card: the death roll. The death roll was a simple, if deadly manoeuvre. Mr. Crocodile lashed its tail against the ground, propelling itself explosively backwards and upwards, while twisting its whole body over and around. The catch was that Bob''s arm was trapped in Mr. Crocodile''s strong jaws. Bob was coming with Mr. Crocodile. All the way. Bob was thrown clean off the ground into the air, did a half somersault and landed hard and awkwardly. His arm screamed in protest. He heard and felt ominous ripping sounds from the soft flesh. His shoulder had popped out of its socket and was grinding against the back of his shoulder bone. The pain was mind-destroying. And if Harry''s defensive formation hadn''t been running on autopilot, Bob''s control would have crumbled away and Mr. Crocodile would have taken the arm. Thankfully Harry at least knew what he was doing. Mr. Crocodile rolled up unharmed. It righted itself, adjusted its position, grounded its feet and yanked at the arm that seemed to be attached to Bob''s shoulder by no more than a few inches of skin and tendon. Only a few more good pulls. Victory was near. Its enemy was lying face-down in a muddy pool. The dagger was buried somewhere out of reach. Time to enjoy the spoils of victory. Bob was lying face-down in a muddy pool. Thank god he''d landed in the soft mud, because otherwise his head-first landing would have knocked him unconscious. Still he''d had better days. Yes he thought he could remember better days. Better days, the phrase had a sweet, nostalgic music to it. The nagging pain at his shoulder seemed oddly distant after that first, sharp intense shock. His thoughts ambled across his consciousness, like people were standing over him talking. Mud, mud, something to do with mud, the word had a familiar ring to Bob, but he felt dizzy and he was at the point where all words kinda just sounded like random noises. Mud, you brought your lips together to make that "mm" sound and then sort of clicked your tongue to get that oozy "ud" sound. It was really a rather onomatopoeic word, don''t you think? Mud, yes, mud, that''s right, that unpleasant, brown, half-liquid, half-solid substance that smells bad. Ah mud! The crocodile and Bob suddenly dropped two feet, as the mud around jumped away, leaving a pit in the ground; a moment later the mud tide swept back, burying them under three feet of muddy sludge. The crocodile blinked and struggled, blindsided by the unexpected pressure and darkness and smell. The animal tried to wade out, slapping its tail and swimming towards the surface, but somehow progress was slow. Its prey seemed to drag against the current. The crocodile couldn''t navigate properly. It kept getting turned around or led off course. It was like the mud resisted, pulling the crocodile down or just falling away behind it. The man-creature was on his last legs. He''d soon drown in the mud trap anyway. The crocodile made the rational decision. It''d come back for Bob''s corpse. The jaws came undone, as the crocodile thrashed upwards, trying to break free from the mud. But the mud redoubled its efforts. It was impossible to move forward. The mud gave back from every stroke or kick, bleeding away any upwards momentum. The crocodile was trapped. Bob bobbed up to the surface, gasped in a mouthful of air and crumbled onto dry ground. Harry draped over him like some kind of disaster blanket. His first words were, "patch me George." A small mountain of white packages dropped on top of him. What? If you were a millionaire, would you really skimp on essential healing items? He tore open package after package and slapped them on his arm, all the while keeping one hand pressed into the mud and his mind laser-focused on the dangerous creature trying to break out and eat him. The health patches certainly felt nice. The continual infusions of warm energy layered over his bleeding arm, sinking into bite holes, pooling over bruises, trickling down to his fingers. The ball of his shoulder joint, however, remained stubbornly outside of its bowl and jarred terribly at any incautious moments. With the small part of his mind that wasn''t occupied on the mud, he managed to wonder, how, given he couldn''t actually manipulate the arm, he was still somehow able to feel pain with it so acutely. Talk about the worst of both worlds. After what felt like forever, the crocodile''s frenzied struggling suddenly stopped. "Finally," Bob complained, it had already been five minutes since he plunged them both into the mud trap. Just how long could that creature survive without oxygen. And all the while writhing like the devil itself. Bob slumped back, pulling his hand back from the edge of the mud pit. His left shoulder was cramped from maintaining the awkward position for so long. He leaned back. Nothing like a moment''s relaxation after a long fight. Now, system, I hope you bloody well made that worth my time. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 5 (96%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,878,300 credits
Bob''s mouth dropped open. 96%. What the hell? He''d been on 96% before the battle started. "Don''t tell me you''re not giving me credit for that. I''m the mud magician. The monster literally drowned in mud. That''s basically my modus operandi. If death by mud isn''t a valid, killing strategy, what do you expect me to do? Wait a moment. Something doesn''t make sense. I got full experience for all those worm-thingys, didn''t I? But that can only mean..." Bob dived for the mud pond. He was going to make it. His hand was an inch away, a half-inch, a quarter-inch, when an enormous wave of mud splattered him in the face, as the crocodile shot out of the water and into the air. Crap, crap, crap, confirm the kill Bob, what have I been telling you all this time, confirm the kill. Bob blinked the mud out of his eyes to see the crocodile fly straight up, peak and then... tumble straight back down into the muddy depths. System be praised. Mud be praised. Bob had been spared. Looks like the monster hadn''t quite been able to judge the angles from inside the opaque, brown sludge. A water mage would have been done in there. What can I say, sometimes luck is better than strength. Gravity and inertia dragged the crocodile back down to the bottom of the pit. Bob planted himself at the pit''s edge. This time he''d make damn sure the crocodile stayed down there, even if he had to sit here all afternoon. Pretending to be dead... when had the animal realized that the mud was being controlled by a sentient being. Either way, Bob wouldn''t fall for the same trick twice. He''d keep one eyed glued to the open status screen and wouldn''t relax his vigilance until the system itself confirmed the kill. The crocodile had made a complete fool of him. Twice. Was human intelligence really all it was cracked up to be? We seem to be prone to all of manner of shortcuts, foolish assumptions and shoddy reasoning. At least as far as our ordinary lives go. I mean honestly, if Bob put his mind to it, he could literally mud-sense twenty meters around him in all directions. A twenty-meter range omnisight for heaven''s sake. And somehow he''d decided to wander around these plains with his eyes closed. Imagine, he, Bob, the mud magician, had just gotten ambushed by a creature inside a pool of mud. He hoped Prudence Wobblewand never heard of this. He''d be the laughingstock of the mage academy. And that was only the prologue to his list of mistakes. He glared at his velcro trainers. What the hell was he wearing shoes for? Get those damn things off. His one good hand was occupied and multicasting was a skill several levels above his mastery. So, like a naughty toddler, he rubbed his feet together until he managed to slide one shoe and then the other off. Next came the socks. Finally he was barefoot. He submerged his toes and wriggled them in the mud. Was it disgusting? Sure. Did it represent a final and irreconcilable fall from grace? Perhaps. But Bob could only manipulate mud he was in direct contact with (the locality principle). And that meant he needed skin on the mud. He needed to get dirty. Up until now, he''d literally crouched down every time and put his hand on the ground. How stupid was that? Sorry, sorry, hold on there for a second, just one second, I''ve just got to put my hand on the ground, there we go, thanks for waiting, sorry about that, ok, you can attack now. If only Bob''s enemies were so honorable... Bob closed his eyes and focused on the sensation coming from his hands and feet. His brain was still struggling with this funny, mud-sense data. For one, it hadn''t yet figured out how to overlap complementary information from multiple sources. We have two eyes, but we don''t see two different images, do we? The brain (most of the time) knows how to stitch together the two data streams into a single, seamless experience. Well that wasn''t happening for Bob''s mud sense. He got three independent data streams from his hand and his two feet. In some ways, the extra information actually blurred his picture of what was going on in the mud pit. He had to jump between data sources and manually compare them. It was confusing and disorientating. But that''s just the right level of suffering to get the brain working on the problem. See the brain is pathologically lazy. It only learns what it has to. It only learns what it''s forced to. The scientists say it''s an evolutionary strategy. It''s cost minimizing. But when Bob told his French teacher that, somehow she''d didn''t find the argument compelling. Mystery isn''t it? Either way Bob sat there, parsing through his mud sensations, as he waited for the crocodile to die. It didn''t happen quickly. The crocodile made two more attempts to escape its muddy prison, but Bob was on the case and didn''t give the poor creature half-a-chance. He could feel its desperation and helplessness. They reached him in the small movements, the way the one good eye flitted around, the line of tension in the jaw, the weak, stilting lunges towards the surface. Maybe it was all pathetic fallacy, but he thought he knew that mindset, that last panic, when hope and death spill into each other and mix together. This time he was sitting over his enemy, in the place of strength, watching the final struggles of the enemy who hadn''t realized he''d already been defeated. He wasn''t used to the view. No, it wasn''t just that, a part of him liked it; it thrilled him to see that proud monster humbled like this, before him, before Bob; but it frightened him too; it made him feel sick and heartless, because he knew that place, he knew the depths of the whirlpool, he knew the darkness. And a part of him wanted to show mercy. But he didn''t. Call it human intelligence if you will. But he didn''t show mercy. No he just watched and waited. Chapter 53 - The Twisted Pretzel The animal took thirty minutes to die. Thirty minutes folks. Thirty bloody minutes. Explain to me why a land-based animal needs to be able to hold its breath for thirty minutes straight. Your average human will pass out after three minutes. Where does this crocodile get off making him wait a whole thirty minutes? Bob had waited though. The whole 1,800 seconds. Bob had dutifully sat at the edge of the mud pool and played deathguard to the crocodile. The most stressful moment had been when George had decided he wouldn''t mind having a dip in the pond his master seemed so obsessed over. You know, just to see what''s inside or some other dog nonsense. Bob had had to grab the dog by the scruff of his neck and drag him away from the edge, relying exclusively on his feet to sense and control the mud. After which instance, thankfully, George had decided he might as well just curl up beside Bob. But now the crocodile was dead. Don''t take Bob''s word for it. Bob certainly hadn''t. Here''s the official system announcement:
Congratulations: Level up 5 - > 6 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to dexterity assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to wisdom assigned Minor decrease to vitality assigned
A token bonus to wisdom? Would this bring him back up to "feeble"? Bob, honestly, sometimes I think you''ve never met the system before. As if the system would give back the very thing it had spent so long taking away. You''ve got a field of flowers growing in that head of yours Bob. A very pretty field, thank you very much. But sure enough:
Stats:
His dexterity had jumped to above average, but that was offset by his vitality falling to below average. Bob wished there was some kind of manual explaining what each of these stats did. You know some kind of system guidebook or introduction. Something to help new sentients out. It felt like it ought to exist no? Even the system couldn''t really want its lab rats dying out of sheer ignorance. Oh well, maybe he''d search the shop for something later. Time to take inventory. Let''s get the bad news out of the way. Bob examined his arm. The patches had done marvels on the bite wounds. Health patches really were the combat medic''s best friend. What had once been gaping holes in his flesh were now almost indistinguishable from the old skin. The only difference was an unnatural whiteness, like someone had grafted a baby''s skin onto that of a fully grown adult. But in another area, the patches had failed spectacularly. His shoulder was just as dislocated as it had been thirty minutes ago. Now Bob didn''t want to be unreasonable. The little things had certainly helped some. For one, they had a mean pain-killing effect. Wasn''t a dislocated shoulder supposed to be excruciatingly painful? And sure Bob had felt like that during the fight, you know, like strike me down God, grant me the gift of death, but now the discomfort was almost manageable, even though he could distinctly feel the ball of his shoulder pushing against the top of his back. The patches had failed Bob. And when others fail, a man must step up for himself. Bob would have to take the matter into his own hands, into Bob''s trusty hands. Now, if he remembered correctly, a shoulder dislocation could be fixed relatively easily. All you had to do was get the ball back in its socket. The difficulty was how. See Bob here wasn''t a doctor and George here was a dog. They weren''t exactly trained professionals. But there had to be some kind of do-it-yourself shoulder dislocation operation, didn''t there? Hold on, Bob raised his index finger to his lip, was that an idea Bob? Yes Bob, yes it was. And people told me reading fantasy was a waste of time. Bob had just remembered something. They had just so happened to be a scene in Jonny the Man where Jonny had dislocated his shoulder. Talk about good luck right? I guess it''s a common injury among heroes. And, in the novel, Jonny had managed to get the ball back into its joint by doing some manner of secret yoga pose. What was the name again? It escapes me... wait, wait, I''ve got it, I think he called it "the twisted pretzel." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Bingo Jonny. Bob would just have to replicate "the twisted pretzel" and he''d be right as rain. Of course, Bob understood that Jonny the Man was a work of fiction. But all great fiction had to be rooted in universal truths right? There''s no way the author, Jonny Johnson, had made the whole thing up. Impossible. Shame. Perish the thought. Humanity lacked the creativity for such a deception. Ok, solid, a plan of action. How had the pose gone again? Bob thought he kinda remembered. First, Jonny had sat himself down on the ground with his legs extended out in front of him. Bob did likewise. Then Jonny had bent his knees up with feet flat on the floor. Bob did likewise. His knees grumbled a little. He probably should stretch more. Shouldn''t we all, shouldn''t we all? Guess he should thank the system for that little dexterity bump. It''s almost like it knew what he was going to do before he did it. Now we get into the meat of the stretch. Jonny had sort of swung his right leg over his left and tucked the foot inside his left knee. And then somehow he''d mirrored the action with his left foot. Bob tried to imagine the position. Ah those must be the wings of the pretzel. Very good, very good. Lastly Jonny had twisted his spine away from the dislocated shoulder (ah the pretzel twist) and, holding this position, he''d sort of twitched his shoulder up and the ball had popped back into its socket. Sounded simple enough. Yes and no. Bob crossed his right leg over the left, so far so good. That was when the enterprise started to derail. Bob didn''t really understand how he was supposed to tuck his foot inside his left knee. His right knee and hip loudly protested his valiant attempts to force the pose. He kept at it, but flexibility doesn''t really bend to stubbornness. His body absolutely refused to facilitate the necessary movement. Well maybe I''ll skip the tucking part, how important can it really be. On to the next step. With his right leg over his left, he tried to put his left leg over his right. "George, I think I''ve discovered a paradox." Putting his left leg over his right naturally meant that his right leg was no longer over his left. The profound truth was simply that only one leg could be on top at one time. Bob shook his head in awe. The great truths are all around us aren''t they? We only have to stop and see. Well I guess that''s why the twisted pretzel is a secret pose. It must be super high-level and require years of hard training. Bob would do what he could. In other words, with right leg over left, he pointed his left foot towards the left side, or was the right side, it''s all very confusing and complicated. Anyway, he pointed the left foot back, you know, to suggest the winged structure of a pretzel. Perfect. Now he was ready for the twist. Bob twisted his spine to the right. F-ing hell. That hurt like the end of days. Was he doing this right? Bob didn''t remember Jonny complaining about any pain. Guess that''s why they call him Jonny the Man, eh? Chin up Bob. It''s nearly over. Ok now for the coup de grace. Bob tried to spasm his right shoulder up and slingshot the ball back into its socket. The manoeuvre stung like the devil. You''re allowed to swear loudly while doing yoga right? The manoeuvre stung like the devil but the ball joint didn''t even tremble. Doubts rose up through the pain: was this a real pose? Was this what yoga was like? Twisting yourself into unnatural forms while enduring unspeakable suffering. Bob really hadn''t given those middle-aged ladies enough credit. This sport required nerves of steel. Bob thought he''d prefer American football. Well Bob you''ve come this far. Don''t give up on me now. Bob imagined Yamada-sensei standing over him, arms folded, looking contemptuously down at his student. Is this all of you''ve got? I''m going back to my cave. Just you watch, Yamada-sensei, just you watch. Bob gave a heroic effort, twitching his whole right shoulder up, and... aww, agony and damnation, the ball had slipped down another half-inch. He looked at his own arm; it hung out awkwardly, connecting to his upper back a full inch lower than it ought to be. Was that really his arm? Bob was having serious reservations on the veracity of this "twisted pretzel" pose. Bloody artistic liberties. Don''t you realize little children are going to take it all at face value. Jonny Johnson, you''re a murderer. A cold-hearted, children-bashing murderer. Calm down, Bob; Jonny Johnson just doing his best. And maybe you''re just doing the pose wrong. Like hell I''m doing the pose wrong. It''s a fake pose. There is no shoulder dislocation pose. Do secret poses even exist? I''m starting to think yoga''s all a conspiracy. It''s some kind of religious cult, centered around worshipping yoga mats. Just in case, just to prove that he was a reasonable and rational individual, Bob went through the steps again, carefully ticking them off against what Jonny had done. Oh my god. He had screwed it up. He was supposed to twist his spine away from the injured shoulder and not towards it. Bob you idiot. That''s so embarrassing. Sorry Jonny. My bad, my bad. I apologize from the deepest part of my heart to all devoted yogis and to the sacred, secret pose of the twisted pretzel. Ok this time for sure. This time for all the marbles. Bob triple-checked he was in the right position. First, the pretzel wings: right leg over left, left foot tilted backwards. Tick. Then the pretzel twist, his spine contorted around to the left. Tick. And now for the shoulder spasm. Bob hated this part the most. It''s really rather difficult to intentionally cause yourself pain. Your body and mind just balk at the prospect. Bob spasmed his shoulder up. A moment of white agony and then, and then... relief, blissful relief; the ball was back in its socket. Thank you, Jonny the Man. Thank you, literature. Thank you, twisted pretzel. Good books aren''t just entertainment. They teach you how to live. Bob slapped on a health patch or two to speed up recovery, but he was already feeling much better. Most problems in life are quite easily solved if you can just keep calm. Bob hoped he could role model this behavior for the younger generations. You know, for the good of humanity. Crisis averted. Time for the next adventure. "Stop right there, Bob. Stop right there. Just before you get carried away on a wave of unwarranted confidence and crash down into another life and death situation, how about you sit down and make sure you''ve properly digested the lessons of the encounter." "Yes, better self." Chapter 54 - Ambush Predator Bob was on a time out. Leg crossed, head propped up on his elbow, he peered into the mud, those dark, mystery depths. The crocodile''s corpse was somewhere down there, frozen in mud, awaiting the archeologist who a thousand years from now would come investigating the origins of the system on earth. And just maybe, looking for traces of him, Lord Bob, the mud magician. After all he''d decided to try, hadn''t he? He''d thrown his hat into the champions'' ring. And this was supposed to have been the first step, the first step on the long road to power. But where had he ended up, straight in the jaws of an ambush predator. And yes he might have come out on top at the end, but the contest had been more a lucky escape than a display of strength. What do you mean lucky? Yeah, super lucky, to be attacked from ambush while strolling through the grasslands. Bob, we''re living in a world full of monsters. You should expect to get attacked. You should always be ready. Still, to say I was lucky is a bit unfair. Really Bob? Really? So that''s what you think. I''ll break it down for you then. For one, you were incredibly lucky the crocodile connected with your arm and not your leg. Sure, the form-hiding mud cloak, the fact the limb arm had hung straight down by your side, the way you walked through the plains half-crouching, those all contributed, but a few inches lower and the crocodile would have connected with your ankle. You''d have fallen down and never risen again. Or what if the crocodile had stuck you while you were fighting a Raupenflieger and didn''t have Harry on you? Snip, snap, crush, chew, splat. No need to be so graphic. For another, you were incredibly lucky the crocodile''s death roll landed in a pool of mud. Yes the rainstorm made them relatively commonplace in the grasslands. And yes the crocodile had probably intentionally chosen the spot to cushion its own landing. But a bed of grass or dirt or a rock and you''d be a goner. Fine, fine. I give up. He might as well admit it to himself. He''d been at death''s edge. You can''t keep this up Bob. Your luck will run out eventually. What is strength? What is the strength of the weak? It most certainly was not blustering head-on into traps. No Bob chewed on the idea. Strength is in choosing one''s battles. In knowing yourself and your enemy. And recklessness is not bravery. Bob was never going to be immortal Achilles, who could just throw himself into the midst of the fighting and massacre his enemies. No, Bob should aspire after Odysseus. The trickster and bowman. By the time the battle started, it should already be decided. The preplanned moves just needed to play themselves out. He should strike only with overwhelming odds and after exhaustive preparations. Man, that sounded like a lot of work. But strength was a lot of work. You can''t get ripped without spending a lot of time in the gym. Ok Bob, introspection time. What did you learn from the engagement? Bob hummed and stroked his beard fluff. He''d started the fight at significant disadvantage. Why? Because the crocodile had seen Bob and Bob hadn''t seen the crocodile. He needed to do a better job scouting. Whoever wins the information war wins the war. Very wise Bob. And as luck would have it, the geographical advantage was entirely with Bob. Just look around at you at these beautiful mud fields. And the system weather service promised rain today, tomorrow and every day after. Things were only going to get muddier. Why had it taken Bob so long to realize? He was the ambush predator. Their roles ought to have been reversed. He should have been the one taking the monster by surprise. There was more good news. Because, finally, after all this time, all his trial and error, Bob had finally stumbled on a mud attack worth the name. I''ll call it: "mudfall." Bob''s smile gave off a rather sinister air. He might be enjoying himself a little too much. Mudfall-- its execution was simple. Lure an enemy over a mud well of a certain depth and, squelch, they''d find themselves six feet under, trapped in a muddy grave. The attack wasn''t foolproof. The initial mana output was high. He had to shift away all that mud and then pull it back. If he missed or there were multiple enemies, he''d be at a significant disadvantage for the remainder of the fight. However, the mana costs of keeping the grave active were minimal. It required small, targeted actions, like denying the enemy proper leverage as he tried to push off, or turning him slightly so he headed in the wrong direction. It did, however, demand high mental effort. He had to direct all his attention on trapped the animal. In summary, mudfall was the ultimate attack against a single enemy taken unawares. A good thing then that the mud magician was an ambush predator. Bob, is this what confidence feels like? I mean real confidence, not bluster or bravado. You know what, Bob, I think it is. I think this is the genuine article. It feels wonderful, Bob. It feels absolutely wonderful. Bob, you know what I''m thinking. I reckon I do. We might just, maybe, probably, be able to fight and win. For the first, Bob felt a little bit more like a hunter and a little bit less like the hunted. And Bob we really ought to get ourselves a companion capable of conversation. You think so too? I''m worried we are starting to go crazy. "George, what do you think?" George opened his eyes and looked wisely up at Bob. "Sorry, let me rephrase: George, do you think I''m crazy?" George barked once and licked Bob''s hand. See I told you. Bob agrees with me, we''re not crazy. Are you crazy? That was the clearest yes I''ve ever heard George make. I guess we''ll just have to agree to disagree. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Bob got to his feet, tried to clap his hands, remembered he was a cripple, remembered he was a magician, shaped the cloak into a hand and clapped his hands. "Come on, George. Time to write some poetry."
Feel the mud, Bob, feel the mud. Bob was crouched down in the tall grasses, eyes closed, sensing the mud around him through his bare feet. He had to admit that his mud senses were not all he''d imagined them to be. They weren''t exactly the eye of god, a true, ever-present omnisight. He discovered that fact when a Raupenflieger had fluttered down completely unnoticed and landed on his shoulder. Ambushed while scouting... Talk about failing while failing. Thankfully Bob had Harry with him, Harry, Rapuenflieger-bane, and the creature had mistaken the demon cloak for a gentle, landing pad. When Bob gave the magical word, the cloak snapped up around the caterpillar, viced shut and then spat out what was left of the juices. The message for Bob was crystal clear. Don''t neglect your mundane senses. Just because you''re a magician, doesn''t mean you can get away with walking around with your eyes and ears closed shut. Message received. The other annoyance, because yes, we humans, complain about our blessings, just as much as our troubles, was that there wasn''t quite enough mud on the plains. Not enough mud? Really? That''s what Bob was complaining about. Hear me out now. Sure there was a lot of mud on the plain. Plenty of mud, but it wasn''t all mud. There were places where the drainage was good. Or stoney patches. Or just places that had dried in the sunlit hours. And remember, Bob could only sense mud through mud, which turned these mud-less islands into blind spots. Yes his mud sense wasn''t perfect, but when it worked, boy did it work. There, at the very edge of his mud sense, he felt something heavy on the ground, lying very still. What did it look like? Bob had no idea. His mud sight wasn''t exactly twenty-twenty. Let''s just say, there was a warmish blob on the ground, a couple meters long, narrowing at both ends, with the weight concentrated in the middle. Bob peered over at in the direction of the blob. He couldn''t see a damn thing. Grass, grass, everywhere, and not a beast in sight. He checked in with his mud sense. The blob was there alright. It was completely stationary. Really the camouflage was mighty impressive. Bob literally had no idea the monster was hiding just ten meters in front of him. Because it was a monster. There''s no deceiving the mud magician. Don''t start telling me about a four-meter, cylindrical rock that tapers on both sides, with all its weight concentrated in the center. Warmth was trickling into the mud from the blob. Warmth meant life, life meant monster. And what do you know, Bob just so happened to be familiar with an ambush predator that matched said description. "George, sometimes system luck is bang on the money." Bob put a hand over the dog''s mouth to stop the imminent bark. It was time for a little payback. Bob advanced carefully, keeping his mind on the feedback from the mud and his good hand on George''s collar. He came to a stop two meters away from the crocodile, because that''s what it was of course, Mr. Crocodile''s evil brother, Croc. To think I''d run into another one so soon. Let''s see whether this plan thingamabob is all it''s cracked up to be, shall we? The Wiesenkriecher really was a master of stealth. Bob hunted through his visual landscape for a hint of the four meter creature he knew was lying in wait for them. He found nothing. Hell he would have sworn on his grandmother''s bones there wasn''t a living thing in sight. Except for the crystal clear feedback from his mud sense. It was a small consolation. Surely there was no shame in being taken by surprise by such a master camouflager. Still he hoped a larger consolation was coming soon. Bob pointed at a nondescript patch of grass: "fire!" George frowned. It was a hard command, fire, wasn''t it. It wasn''t like we''d spend most of yesterday practicing the instruction. Bob shook his head and groaned. "George, I thought we were past this. You did so well yesterday." George continued frowning. Now Bob wasn''t unsympathetic to the dog. It''s true, their current situation was a little different. Previously they''d always been an immediately obvious, palpably dangerous enemy. That was a pretty strong cue for the dog. But this time Bob was pointing at a harmless patch of grass, quite nice, friendly grass too. "George, you''re going to make me do this the hard way aren''t you? Fine, fine, but I do this only because I love you George." Croc was confused. Bob could feel through the mud as the animal ever so slightly rotated its head to look in their direction. Bob could empathize. Here were two, weak-looking prey that had wandered right up to its stalk-out position and then stopped just outside of range. There they stood and seemed to be chatting amicably. One complaining at the other, who wore an unhappy, puzzled expression. Croc must have so many questions, Bob mused. Were they on to him? No, that didn''t make sense. Croc''s camouflage was legendary. He''d even chosen a muddy patch on purpose to disguise any scent-based tracking. And if they were onto him, what were they doing dialoguing right next to a deadly enemy? Croc had just gotten unlucky. Unlucky that they''d paused right there and not two steps further. He''d just have to wait for his moment. He kept eyes trained on the two animals. The taller animal was standing up with one of his claws extended in front of him. "Sit." The smaller, yellow, hairy animal responded instantly, coming up into what looked like some kind of special posture. "Shake." The larger animal stretched out his paw and the smaller animal tapped one paw and then the other to it. Was this some kind of dance? Ah, maybe it''s a mating ritual. That makes a lot of sense. Were they really going to start mating two meters in front of him? Maybe Croc could sneak up on them while they were in the act and kill them in one fell swoop. Not a bad way to die. "Lie Down." The smaller animal lowered itself flat against the ground. Ah yes and now the larger animal will mount on top of him. Croc was a bit of a player himself. "Wait." The larger animal held its paw out in front of it and spread out the claws. What, why is the larger animal backing away? He''s lost his nerve. It happens something. Croc mentally shook his head. At the end of the day, mating rituals all come down to who''s got enough balls. "Fire." Hold on there. Croc blinked. Was it his imagination or was the larger animal pointing directly at Croc''s position? That couldn''t be a coincidence could it? Had Croc misread the situation. What should he do? Attack, retreat, stay absolutely still? The smaller animal jumped up, spun around, breathed in and darkness... Chapter 55 - Feed me "Ambush Predator, motherfucker," Bob shouted at the top of his lungs. Yes announcing your successful ambush in a vulgar and offensive way was absolutely necessary to the path of the ambush predator. Bob would know. He was the mud magician after all. Poor Croc. He''d never had a chance. He''d been flamethrowered down along with most of the surrounding plant life. The cost of the war. "That my friend, is how you do an ambush. One overwhelming attack of unstoppable force. Don''t give your enemy even a fraction of a chance to get back up." Bob patted George''s head, "you did good George. Good boy, good boy." George yipped happily. Maybe he''d just leveled up. Folks, we have a new playbook. Bob had a feeling that leveling was about to become a lot more fun for the both of them. No more desperate life-and-death dances, and a lot more shouting motherfucker over the corpses of vanquished enemies. What more could a man ask for? Mind Bob couldn''t let George do all the killing, because the system was very stingy with experience sharing. In fact, as far as Bob could tell, he''d never gotten a single experience point from something the dog had killed. It used to bother him. But Bob was a changed man. He had his own killing move now, thank you very much and he could earn his keep. Pop! Bob had let himself get distracted and George hadn''t missed the opportunity. The charred crocodile corpse disappeared into George''s storage. Bob opened his mouth to complain, but bit back his remark. The earlier corpses had not been without their uses, and it was George''s kill after all. Two days. It had taken two days for corpse hoarding to become normalized. Moral norms were transforming at a dizzying pace. They set out at once to look for more prey. Feed me, system. Feed me. Ask for a thing and it shall be given. Bob just wished he''d been a little more specific in his request. Because they did not find a lonely monster, roaming about, seeking whom he could devour, instead they stumbled on what could only be described as a fortress of solidified grass. Bob kept his distance, hiding in the taller grasses, as he looked over this green fort. Eight-foot high walls, broken into zigzagging panels, carved out an enormous ring in the prairie. The land beyond the wall had been cleared for hundred paces, giving defenders an unbroken line-of-sight over the plain. Sentinels were posted at semi-regular intervals along the wall. Bob could make out their figures across the blue skyline. And one thing was immediately obvious: they weren''t human. Bob edged as close as he dared, trying to get a better look at the fort-dwellers. Yes they weren''t human. If Bob had to put a name to the creatures, he would probably call them beetles. They were six-legged, with a hard exoskeleton and a pair of mandibles, except they''d been blown up to about the size of an adult badger. Their shells were a vivid green and a solitary black horn pointed out from the centre of their forehead. The system called them "Kriegsk?fer", with levels ranging between two and five. Bob watched as a company of these beetles approached the walls. They kept good order, marching in tight formation, with the outer ring maintaining a close watch on their surroundings. Bob guessed they were a foraging party, because behind them they dragged rough sledges full of cut grass. They made their way to a particular, nondescript part of the wall, which suddenly collapsed down in front of them. Two guards came out and stood as rearguard while the group marched through the makeshift gate. After the last beetle had passed, the wall quickly started to come back up as the guards worked on reforming it. They used a kind of green paste. It seemed malleable like clay, and the beetle had a knack for shaping it with their mandibles. Once they had it in the desired position, they sort of spit on it and it hardened instantly into place. The wall was serviceable again in less than five minutes. Their efficiency, organization and architecture all seemed marvelous to Bob. For heaven''s sake, he had spent one night lying against the bathroom floor, another in a tent and the last one just passed out the hillside. These beetles had civilization. Tall walls, organized companies, proper look-outs. They must also have some kind of drainage system rigged up, because otherwise the unnatural rain would have disrupted their fortress-building efforts. Unfortunately, they were also monsters. And every game Bob had ever played, monsters attacked on sight. That wasn''t meant as criticism. The monsters certainly had just cause for preemptive action. Players came out to their homes with the explicit and sole intent of hunting them down. And in most games, monsters didn''t even attack each other, meaning they were able to live in perfect harmony, except for the evil, genocidal players. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Just look at our Bob. He''d been wandering around the plains looking for victims to execute, chanting under his breath, feed me, feed me. Don''t try to play yourself as the good guy. Especially while you plot how best to burn down a semi-intelligent settlement of herbivore beetles. It wasn''t Bob''s fault. Bob didn''t make the rules. It wasn''t Bob''s fault the system didn''t share the core values of peace, love and good-will that defined the Heavenly Father of Judaeo-Christian religions. No, Bob would describe the system as more of a cry-havoc-and-let-loose-the-dogs-of-war kind of deity. You know, let there be blood. Still Bob was a little hesitant about attacking a beetle-force of this magnitude. Setting the moral question aside, there had to be hundreds of beetles living in the encampment. Maybe thousands. Individually they didn''t look particularly dangerous. Bob had been fighting four-meter long crocodiles and blade-armed praying mantises. But, as they say, quantity has a quality of its own. Even all-mighty George, the fire god himself, had been practically KOed by a school of worm-snakes. "George, strength is about choosing your battles." The dog nodded sagely. "We''ve both gotten a lot stronger." The dog nodded sagely "But I don''t think we''re ready for all-out siege warfare." The dog nodded sagely. "Yet." The dog nodded sagely. "Let''s go around and look for something easier to squash." The dog nodded sagely. George and Bob were really in sync these days. Bob felt like George really understood him, you know, heart-to-heart, man-to-dog. Making the dog a knight had been a real turning point. The burden of nobility. George had really matured since taking on the title. Bob too had grown. Yesterday he would have run away immediately, tail between his legs, praying the damn insects weren''t on his tail. This morning, he would have swaggered up to the walls and shouted, "bring out your champion." And the whole beetle swarm would have mobbed him. Now he scouted out his adversary, took counsel with his knights and made calm, deliberated decisions. He felt like he had struck the Goldilocks zone. Don''t misjudge Bob here. He certainly planned to attack in the near future. He just wanted one or two more levels under his belt and some time to muddle over the best way to break down those walls. His current attack repertoire lacked the area of effects spells suited to massacring the swarm. I''ll be back. Ten minutes puttering about, ear to the mud, and Bob had found just the ticket. The mud signal was a little distorted. Now try to piece this out: there''s a motionless blob with a warm liquid spilling around it and a hard, pointed rob pressing into the ground. Around the blob are eight other points of contact, which occasionally make slight, adjusting movements that rock the central blob back and forth. Any guesses? Bob figured he could tease out a picture of the scene. First the central blob, an unmoving body on its back with a long horn pushed into the mud. Where have you seen that before? And then some other eight-legged entity, sitting over the unmoving body, doing something that might cause the body to twitch and shake. Do you need a hint? What if I told you the eight legs were all covered in fine hair. Not enough? Fine, this''ll put you over the edge. Moustache. You got it right? Unless Bob was very much mistaken, he''d come across a Spinnenh¨¹pfer just as it was tucking into a midday beetle-juice snack. Looks like there was a good reason for those beetles to build tall walls and strong companies. It was also nice to know that real monsters unlike their video-game counterparts had no qualms about killing and eating each other. Equality be praised. Bob almost felt nostalgic at the prospect of a reunion with his moustachioed friend. The spider monster had been his first true adversary post-initiation. His first real fight. He smiled fondly at the memory. They''d just happened upon each other in the grasses and the spider had thrown itself into Bob''s arms like some long-lost lover. Bob remembered himself trapped under the spider as Harry desperately held back the fatal, venomous injection. Good times. Good times. Bob guessed that Spinnenh¨¹pfer, the dog-sized spider-grasshopper amalgamation, would probably be classified as a jumping spider. Jumping spiders were really rather interesting creatures. Now Bob thought he remembered reading something about the predator habits of jumping spiders. Something about how, after pinning their prey with their front legs, they''d inject a venom that liquifies their victim from the inside-out and then sort of slurp up the liquified insides. Interesting stuff no? Wow, thanks for bringing that up right now. Poor beetle. Bob had had a bit of a narrow escape on the last occasion. This time things would go differently. Bob spat on one hand and then on some hand-shaped mud (Harry) and rubbed the two together. It was time to unveil a premeditated mudfall to the world. Bob would communicate his will through the mud and the ground would fall away from under his enemy. Darkness would crash down over him and then despair and then silence. It was a terrifying, merciless attack. And the best part was that Bob could do it from a safe distance. You realize that in practically every single fight up until now, Bob had been required to make physical contact with his monster adversary. Bob had felt a host of sensations that he''d never wished for and would never be able to forget. But not this time. This time he''d pull the whole thing off safely hidden in the bushes and walk away without a scratch. The spider was currently standing in a shallow mud pool (that''s how Bob was able to get such a clear read on its position and activity). The pit wasn''t ideal for mud-drowning an enemy. It wasn''t deep enough to let Bob effectively forestall and trap his victim. However, there was plenty of mud around the spot. The true genius of battle lies in adaptability. Bob would build himself a little mud mound. A suitable grave marker for an old enemy. The spider had made its fateful mistake. The moment it decided to walk through and not around the mud. Beware of mud. Beware of the mud magician. Bob concentrated on what he was trying to achieve; that mud goes here, that mud goes there, then this, then that. He crafted the spell and then: mudfall! Chapter 56 - Swan Song Bob looked out over the mud fields. And he heard a voice speak to him in his mind. And it said: "Bob, raise your staff and stretch out your hand over the mud, that it be divided. Then draw away your hand, that the mud may flow back upon your foe." Bob held out a hand to George, "stick." George unhappily obliged. Bob, crouching uncomfortably in the thick grasses, raised his salvia-covered staff and stretched out his hand. "Mudfall," he screamed. What? The voice hadn''t told him not to say it. The ground shuddered as Bob parted the mud sea, two thousand liters of mud were siphoned away in a moment, and then Bob drew away his hand, and the mud plummeted back into place, sweeping all away before it. The spider and beetle corpse toppled down and then were battered overhead with wave after wave of muddy vengeance. More and more mud rained down on the heads of the enemies of the mud magician. A pyramid of mud was raised atop their fruitless struggling. And then, there was the silence of death. The army of the Pharaoh was drowned in the mud. Bob handed back his stick, "thanks boy." George jealously took back the stick and stored it in his satchel with a pop. Bob ruffled the dog''s head. "You know I never thought killing things would be this fun. There might be something terribly wrong with me." Bob swayed and almost collapsed down head-first. He caught himself with his left hand. Maybe I overdid it a little. He felt a mana headache coming on. Had the mud pyramid really been necessary? Moving mud against gravity was many times more taxing than making it fall down on people''s heads. Still a good attack has to have a bit of dramatic flair. He counted down from five potatoes. Five potato, four potato... He was giving the spider enough time to break out any hidden trump cards. The last thing he wanted was more intimate time with a venomous arachnid who was dying to suck out his insides. If the creature could break out, Bob and George would skulk off and ambush it again later. No, you''re right, fighting an ambush predator is not particularly fair. Bob hoped he''d never have to meet such an underhanded scoundrel. Spoiler: the spider didn''t have a secret trump card. It thrashed around a good deal, cycled through several swimming strokes optimized for eight-legged creatures and got absolutely nowhere. Don''t mistake mud-sludge for H?O. Mud-sludge is heavy and sticky. It gives when you want it to hold and holds when you wish it would give. And Bob was always ready to prod things along in the desired direction. Come on guys. Bob had imprisoned a three-meter crocodile. A mastiff-sized spider was child''s play. Once he''d confirmed there were no unpleasant surprises in store, he started to hopple over to the edge of the mound. There were network costs when trying to affect things at a distance. In other words, the closer Bob was to the mound, the less mana he had to pay to keep the spider entombed. The connecting mud somehow leeched away some of the magical energy. Oddly the limitation didn''t seem to apply to Harry, but Bob would puzzle over that another time. Because, despite appearances, this was still a combat situation. He was no longer the greenhorn he''d once been. He understood when to focus and when to goof off. Right now Bob needed to hoard as much of his mana as he could. You never know what might happen next. Not to mention, mana deprivation was very real and very unpleasant. There really was a world of difference between manipulating dumb mud and Harry Mud. He should probably try to come up with some attacks that didn''t leave him exhausted and vulnerable. Still now was a time to celebrate. Look how far he''d come. He saw young Bob. The Bob of two days ago. That Bob had quaked in his boots as the hairy spider emerged from the underbrush. That Bob had been knocked off his feet, screaming for George to save him. And now just look at him. He''d one-shotted the same monster from ambush. Power really was a rush. His heart was thumping. His face flushed. Is this what the strong feel like? Bob relived the attack. He watched himself plunge his enemies into the wet darkness with a swipe of his hand. And he made a truly profound discovery. He''d finally understood why anime characters invariably called out their attack names. To an outside observer, the practice seemed strange, counter-productive even. You were telegraphing what attack you were planning to use. You were giving up the advantage of surprise. Some more recent productions seemed to go out of their way to justify the practice. Attacks are stronger if you explain how they work to your opponent. Or the shout is a physical cue to help you correctly execute the attack, etc, etc... Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. But no that wasn''t the real reason at all. You''d never be able to understand, plopped on your couch, feet up, snacking on something salty. It was a question of psychology, of mental state. You see, it''s not that you have to say the attack name. It''s that you want to. It just feels good to shout out the attack name. In a word, it''s just damn cool. That was the ultimate truth. And Bob knew that he was a convert. He was a name-shouter. It felt too good to stop. Bob parked himself down on an uprooted stone, while George circled the mound, sniffing and wagging his tail. Now to wait out the spider''s oxygen supply. In a couple days, Bob would probably be able to tell you exactly how long each monster in the grasslands could hold its breath. That was a worthwhile endeavor right? Exactly. Bob wasn''t murdering living creatures for personal benefit. He was a biologist. It was all for science. That grand banner of enlightenment. Bob opened up his status so that he could keep an eye on his level percentage. Learned caution is the sharpest. Now to watch the spider''s swan song. The performance began with a long sequence of desperate writhing. Of course, the mud currents, the sludge, the darkness and the mud magician''s all-seeing eye made sure that attempt got nowhere. The spider followed up by letting itself float down to the pit bottom. There was a grace to the spider''s slow movements in the mud, completely lacking in its aboveground scutterings. With its eight feet entrenched on the firmer ground, the spider leaned back and crouched into his grasshopper legs. Bob waggled his finger, "If I hadn''t fought you before, you might have bested me. But I know exactly what you''re doing down there." The Spinnenh¨¹pfer was a jumping spider after all. And ballet is all about its leaps. Bob focused. Just as the spider was about to uncoil its back legs into an eruption of upward motion, Bob pulled out the thin layer of mud he''d slithered under its footing. The spider slipped, its back legs shotgunned into empty space and spun it widely around and backwards, thrown completely off balance by the lack of any counterforce. Bob clapped, but it was just out of politeness; the dancer had butchered the jump. When would the creature learn that death was the inevitability that came for us all. Right now. The spider lay there, on its back, its spirit crushed, its dreams in tatters, utterly still, almost dead. Bob shook his head knowingly. You see he''d seen this dance before. "No one''s as original as they think they are. What does the Bible say? There''s nothing new under the sun." Except for Bob of course. Bob was originality incarnate. The spider gave a good show. That was a passably convincing death-act. If he were looking for a corpse actor, the spider would certainly make callbacks. Unfortunately, Bob had the word of god written in a greyscale text box floating in front of his eyes. And his level percentage had not ticked up. Ergo, the spider was only playing dead. Sure enough, only ten seconds later, it deftly flipped itself right-side and tried to scuttle away. So might a fly try to break out of the glass jar of its imprisonment. The spider was stopped short against an invisible wall of mud. Maybe a minute and a half had passed. The long death dance was wrapping up. Credits to oxygen deprivation and her team of symptoms, confusion, fatigue, cornering and raised heart rate. The spider''s movements started to slow and stretch, becoming dizzy and swaying. Here we go. The grand finale. The spider trekked its way back to the beetle corpse. It leaned against the body, like it was trying to catch its breath. Then in a last effort, the spider pulled itself up onto the beetle. Bob watched through the mud. How was an animal to die? You read about how animals always supposedly struggle to their very last breath. Curious because humans in general seem to give up rather quickly. Animals must just have more to live for than us human-folk. Which was Bob? Oh Bob was a survivor. He''d fight to his last breath and beyond. He''d come back from death. He was unstoppable. Really Bob? I always pegged you as a giver-upper. Now that''s not fair. Nobody can really say until they''re put to the test. May the test never come. Well the test had come for our spider. Here was the perfect experiment in animal death psychology. Bob leaned in, concentrating on the picture painted by his mud sense. What would our spider friend do? No scratch that, what was our spider friend doing? The spider had climbed onto the beetle. That was clear as day. But Bob had a hard time judging what it was doing on there. His powers weren''t beetle corpse manipulation after all, so the beetle formed a bit of blind-spot for him. You know it almost looked like the spider was eating the beetle. The monster had crouched low down and the beetle body rocked a little back and forth as the spider secured itself. Wow, Bob would have to write a book. This was a groundbreaking discovery that had to be shared with the biological community. It was Bob''s duty as a scientist. Struggle to the end? No. Give up and find peace? No. Our spider had carved out a third way. "People of the world, I give you, the hedonist. If you are going to die, you might as well die with a meal. That''s some sound reasoning, my eight-legged friend." Bob applauded the spider''s wholehearted devotion to its desires. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then thirty. The spider went completely still. The spider had died mid-entree. Bravo, bravo. A tremble like a shiver of tension across a taut string and then boom! Chapter 57 - Deja vu Boom! What''s that in the sky? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it''s a... it''s a... it''s a giant, mud-covered spider. Everybody down! Bob was blown over to the side, stunned by the noise and a generous dollop of mud to the face, while the spider exploded upwards, its grasshopper back-legs bulleting it into the sky. In the final moment Bob had understood. A trick. A trap. The spider had used the beetle as a launching pad. The one safe island in a sea of hostile mud. Bob had tried to respond, but he reacted too slow and the spider had too much momentum. The spider sailed out of the pit, into the air; it was dancing on sunshine; it arched upwards, shedding mud to the heavens... Aha, it''ll fall back into the pit. Serve you right. No Bob. Even you can''t be that lucky twice in a row. The spider flew clear out of the pit and the pyramid, whizzed through the air and landed, bang, right on top of George. What are the chances? George''s feet were cut out from under him and the two rolled back together until the grass managed to kill their inertia. When the mud-dust cleared, George was under the spider, belly up. "George''s now your chance. Marshmallow that spider. What are you waiting for? Get him George, get him. Fire. Fire. Fire." Except George didn''t get him. George didn''t fire. No, George had started acting weird. The dog was staring utterly transfixed by the spider''s mustache. The dog couldn''t take his eyes off the thing. It was like he''d been hypnotized. And he couldn''t hear a word Bob was shouting. No response, no acknowledgement, no tilt of the head or answering bark. Like he was lost in a dream. I knew there was something funny about that stache. Bloody psychedelic facial hair. Cut me a break. The best my beard''s ever been able to do is to repel all members of the feminine sex from a ten-foot distance. "George, snap out of it. Come on boy." But the dog was lost off the deep end and he wasn''t coming back. Bob would have to save him. He dragged himself to his feet and started running at the pair, scrambling his brain for some kind of quick-fix magic. The spider too was hardly his best self. A full stomach, two minutes drowning under a mud pyramid and then a brief flight through the air, ending on top of a furry, yellow creature with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, took something out of a monster. You couldn''t expect to just pick yourself off, wipe away the mud and get on with your day. The spider gasped for breath as his body paid back its oxygen debt. Still, generations of deeply-instilled instincts served our spider in its trying time. When in doubt, sink your fangs down into the struggling creature underneath you. You can always think things through after everyone else is dead. Bob was too far away. He wouldn''t make it. George was defenseless. He didn''t have a Harry to cover him when things went south. Thankfully George was also a dog and so he didn''t fear what should obviously be feared. He had examined the marvelous moustache from a distance and decided it wasn''t enough. The moustache needed to be experienced. George licked the spider on the face. The spider froze mid attack, worried it had been hit by some kind of poison lick, which gave Bob just enough time to shape Harry into a harpoon and hurl him at the animal: "Mudpoon!" Sometimes the right words come at exactly the right time. The spider had no natural armor and Harry''s hooked point latched deep into spider flesh. Bob clasped the trailing rope with one hand and pulled on Harry with mind and muscle. The spider jerked back a step. But the impact had cleared the spider''s mind and the creature now wrestled and writhed, lunging for the stupid dog with fangs bared. And painful as it was to admit, Bob didn''t have the upper-body strength he might have liked. His mud arts too were more finesse than raw power. Suffice it to say, Bob was not going to win this tug of war. "George, George. Listen to me, you bloody dog. Get up. Get out of there." The spider let itself fall back a step, unsettling Bob''s balance and then jumped forward before Bob could reestablish himself. The spider''s fangs swiped down, "George, nooo..." the monster was in range, they''d connect, Bob could do nothing, it was too late; in a final, desperate attempt, without hope or reason, he called out a single word: "stick!" At that sound, at that syllable, George sprang instantly to his feet and started to pan the surroundings looking for the fateful object. The spider''s attack fell short and Bob and Harry pulled, heaving the monster back one step and then another. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. George looked at Bob and Bob nodded off into the distance. George didn''t need further encouragement. There was a stick to be found. The dog bounded off in search of the imaginary. I hate golden retrievers. But at least the dog was safe now. Bob, however, was in trouble. The spider, seeing one adversary had escaped its reach, decided it ought to commit to the other. The spider twisted and threw itself at Bob, at Bob who was currently pulling the spider towards himself with all his meagre strength. Monster impacted Bob. Bob impacted ground. Bob looked up and saw a moustache. A pencil moustache, neatly shaved and combed. It was a respectable, dashing piece of facial hair. Sharp, bold lines in luxurious black hair. Now why couldn''t Bob grow something like that. That was a moustache. Bob felt a powerful sense of deja vu. "Harry, you''re not going to believe me, but somehow I think I''ve been here before." It was something about the scene. That bulbous, black and green body, those myriad legs with their fine, delicate hairs, the predator''s forward-facing eyes, the fangs bobbing up and down in front of his vision. "Yes, Harry I''m sure of it. I''ve been here before." The cloak in question was wriggling and waving, an angry ocean of pulsating mud. "Then again Harry I''m not sure. I feel like that''s not quite the same moustache I remember. What do you think? It''s too thin. I''m probably wrong. You know how things go. The mind is always looking for connections. We can''t even trust ourselves." The spider''s jaw came so close to Bob''s neck that the moustache tickled his neck. He giggled girlishly, "stop that, I''m sensitive there." Bob didn''t try to stand up or run away. He mumbled happily to himself, completely oblivious to the heated struggle taking place on top of him. "What a nice day it is, don''t you think, Harry?" He ran a hand through the grass. "I''m so glad we were able to get outside today and not be stuck inside the office. It''d be such a shame to miss the nice weather." Harry had had enough of this prattle. The hood came down by itself and blocked out Bob''s vision. "What? Where am I? Something''s on top of me." He flicked off the hood and there was the stache. The glorious stache. " What a piece of facial hair! I always knew modern society undervalued facial hair. The audacity of expression. Scalp hair really can''t compete." The hood came down again. It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over Bob. A part of him wanted to look at the moustache again. This was probably his only chance to see it up close. He''d be mad to throw it away. No Bob, you''d be mad to look. How had he ended up here? He''d had one goal, only one goal for the fight. And that was not to have to touch the damn animal. And where was the animal, sitting on top of him. Ok he''d been here before. How had he gotten out last time? George. "George, come save me." There was no bark. George always barked when he heard his name. Oh yes, he had sent George off on a wild-goose chase, looking for an imaginary stick. Smart move Bob. "Wait, I remember something." "What is it?" "Don''t interrupt me when I''m trying to remember." "Sorry." "You interrupted me again." "I''ve lost it. Ouch!" The spider had decided to drop its lower body onto his legs to try and keep its prey from writhing around so much. The move effectively pinned part of Harry to the ground, preventing the cloak from resisting as effectively. "Bob I''ve got it. No, no sorry, false alarm, I''ve lost it again." Two sharp objects stabbed through the cloth above Bob''s face, hovering just above his face. A liquid spilled down from them on top of Bob''s cheek. Bloody hell. The venom sizzled against his skin. He snapped his mouth shut to prevent any from rolling inside. "That''s it. That''s it. Inside the mouth. " The spell came to Bob in a flash. And all of sudden, the mud cloak had melted into liquid and was flying from all directions to pile inside those open jaws. It was like someone had pulled out the plug and all the mud was spiraling down inside. The spider coughed, choked, its mouth swelling until it looked like its cheeks would burst outwards; the monster just fell off Bob and onto its back. Its legs twitched and its body convulsed. Bob rose to his feet and wiped off the dust, standing over the monster curled up on the ground. That there''s the power of a continuous connection. Last time Bob had just thrown mud shot after mud shot at the creature''s mouth. The moment it had left the ground it was out of his control, just ordinary mud that the creature could spit out or choke down. This time he was using Harry. The spider didn''t have a chance. It tried desperately to vomit out the mud, but Harry stayed right where he was. So the monster changed tactics and tried to swallow down the mud. Big mistake. Harry Mud trickled down inside the spider''s digestive system and then solidified into a ball of spikes. The spider was killed from the inside-out, liquified by a muddy, sentient poison. A fitting death for a jumping spider. And that was when Sir George, the golden knight, decided to make his appearance. He trotted happily up with a stick in his mouth. "You found it boy," Bob patted the care-free animal, "you found the imaginary stick. That''s no easy feat." When Bob tried to take the stick, George clamped down. "Ok, your stick. I understand." Pop, Bob''s camping chair appeared. "Wow George, how considerate of you. That''s a real gentleman move of you." Bob sat down, just in time to watch George walk over to the corpse and pop it into his storage. "A distraction George! Low blow. And of course you''d want the body. That''s a little bit more barbarian than gentleman, but you do you, George, you do you." Chapter 58 - Something Stupid Bob enjoyed a well earned break after his second traumatic encounter with a giant spider. This was almost certainly going to leave some fearful mental scarring. Bob was worried he might be turned off moustaches indefinitely which would be a real tragedy for the facial hair community, but it''s so hard to break away from ingrained associations. Man and dog sat down, had some lunch, watched the clouds, almost nodded off, remembered this was a serious business, drank some system-bought coffee (bloody shipping costs) and decided what to do next. Bob was feeling antsy. That long and epic duel with a level seven Spinnenh¨¹pfer had only netted him thirty or so percent to his next level. It just didn''t feel worth it. At this rate, he''d have to repeat more than ten of these battles to hit level ten and that was assuming there was no experience dilution at the higher levels. There was almost certainly experience dilution at higher levels. Realistically it''d be more like twenty or thirty. Who had the time or will for any of that? Truth be told. Bob was spoiled. He''d seen himself jump from level 1 to level 5 in a single night. Hell in a single attack. People like to say slow and steady wins the race and all, but if you lose the will from boredom and the lack of progress and the length of the track, then you aren''t going to finish at all. Bob preferred to say fast and furious. At least all the losers get to go out in balls of fire. Anyway, nothing defined the end of a narrative arc like a grand showdown. Was Bob being influenced by the literary tradition of progressive fantasy? Maybe. You can only read so many of those books before you start to expect characters to take death-defying, end-of-the-world risks with a sort of everyday attitude, like what else was I going to do? After all, it''s not particularly interesting watching your hero grind against proverbial boars in a forest until he can emerge at maximum level and slaughter everyone. Though that is obviously the lowest risk, highest success strategy. If only Bob had been a better man. If only Bob had been a smarter man, a more sensible man, if only he had his head on his shoulders right. Yes, Bob''s bosses had been pointing out his crooked neck from time immemorial. But Bob wasn''t a better man. He was Bob. And you know what, in his heart of hearts, he didn''t believe he was being wrong or stupid. He really believed this was the only way. Bob slouched deeper into his chair and closed his eyes. "Think it through Bob. Yes you''re impatient. You want to get stronger right now, today. You want to feel safe and free. I understand all that. I empathize. But is this the right way? Are you going to step up to that table again and go all in? All in. You remember what it feels like. That gut-wrenching pull on your insides, that hanging tension, that dry throat and the burning emptiness. Do you really want to go back there?" "No, no, of course not. And yes, a little; do you remember what it felt on the other side? When I could stand up and say to that room of helpless souls, you''re all free now. Bob, that''s the only meaningful thing I''ve done my whole life. Well, that and George. I don''t think you can have the one without the other." He rubbed a hand across his head and opened his eyes. "I can''t go back to being helpless. I can''t live that way anymore." "Yes, you''re going to be strong. We are going to be strong. But that''s what we''re doing here. This hunting. These ambushes. And you''re making progress. Your mud manipulation is miles ahead of what it was this morning. You''ve learned to scout. You have actual attacks now. Hell you just ambushed and brought down a level seven monster. And without taking any damage." "Don''t bullshit me. That fight was a disaster. Both George or I could have died last fight. Should have died. The spider completely outplayed me. We survived by the skin of our teeth. But I''m not surprised and, you know, I don''t even really blame myself, I think that''s what combat is. That''s what it means to fight to the death. There are only two ways these fights can go. Either it''s a one-sided slaughter, a put-down, or it''s a toss-up and you''re one bad roll away from death. There''s no such thing as safe combat. The risks are there either way. "But that''s not the real reason. This isn''t a video game, Bob. You think no-one else is doing what we''re doing. Everybody is. And I bet you, every single one of them is going to be playing it safe, choosing their targets, leveled up one step at a time. It''s their life at stake. You saw in the casino, didn''t you? The way Henry played. Calculated risks. We''re not going to overtake anyone playing by their rules. I''m not stupid, but other folk are out there smarter than me. "I think we''ve been thinking about this wrong. Strength isn''t something objective, it''s not some line you cross, and then you can call yourself strong. Strength is nothing more than an accident, an accident arising from the weakness of others. What''s important is how strong everybody else is. That''s the measure of your strength. The difference between you and the next guy." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. If Bob fell behind the pack, he''d be torn apart. He had to run in front. Slow and steady wasn''t enough. He''d be run down and trampled under in no time. Bob had to do something drastic. "I can''t believe we''re doing this," he muttered to himself, but he sat up in the camp chair and addressed the dog, "George, let¡¯s do something stupid." George barked happily. At least the dog was on board. Of course the dog was on board. Stupid dog. If anything that just made Bob more nervous. "Guess that settles things then. System protect us."
Still just because Bob was going to do something stupid, it didn''t mean he had to do it in a stupid way. On the contrary, he''d do something stupid in a smart way. Get it? No. Good. You''re not supposed to. What Bob was trying to say was that he''d made some preparations. He''d had a couple ideas. He''d made some loose plans. What Bob was trying to say was: "save me from myself". Nobody volunteered. Bob and George were prone, lying at the far extreme of the dead zone, the ring of empty land surrounding Fort Unicorn-Beetle. Bob had bought himself a pair of binoculars. He squinted through the field glasses and surveyed the enemies defenses. Those were some impressive defenses. He wished they didn''t have to be quite so impressive Just look at those walls: eight feet high, made of hardened grass, and consciously arranged into zigzagging bastions. It was a sheer triumph of overlapping fields of fire. The fort''s design was startlingly renaissance. Imagine the kind of star fort Leonardo da Vinci might have drawn. The beetles weren''t resting at arms either. Their posted sentries diligently swept the dead zone, looking for the slightest threat or movement. Who on earth were they expecting to attack? Maybe these beetles went to war with each other like certain ant colonies. Perfect, so they''d all have battle experience. Bob gulped. He bit his lip. He shuffled a little. He removed the field glasses and looked over his troops, cough, troop, cough, dog. Now if he were a betting man... Sometimes the only way to move forward is not to think too much about what''s ahead. And anyway, who doesn''t fancy a little bit of siege warfare after lunch? "George, you''ve got all those things I made right?" Bark. "And you remember how to use them." Bark. "Good huddle." There was no point trying to sneak across the plain when the sentries were so obviously doing their job properly. We might as well go comfortably then. "Come on George." Bob rose to his feet and started to walk towards the wall, George following behind. A steady, echoing rhythm pulsed out from the walls. The sentry who''d spotted them was tapping its horn against the grass wall, alerting the whole fort to the presence of enemies. Great, the animals can communicate with each other. The call was quickly taken up and repeated all over the camp. In thirty seconds, the walls were swarming with horned beetles, all eyes fixed on the two intruders. They really functioned like a well-oiled machine. Bob tried to say calm. But this wasn''t just a routine nervousness. It''s not like Bob was planning to stand up and give a speech in front of these beetles. He wasn''t just imagining the hostility and actually they were all friendly beetles who wanted to find out what he had to say. No the beetles wanted to kill him. And well they should, because Bob had come here to massacre them all. Bob kept walking. But George stopped, barked, looked at Bob, looked at the beetles, looked at Bob. Yes George I do see the army of angry beetles. You don''t have to tell me. I have eyes. Bob stopped about twenty paces from the walls. Silence descended over the battlefield. Bob made no move to attack. Bob was hoping they''d come out and fight him in the dead zone instead. For one thing, he didn''t have a battering ram and for another he didn''t have a team of strong men to swing said battering ram. Going over or through those walls was going to be a hassle. But most importantly, the dead zone was ideal terrain for the mud magician. The beetles had cut away all the grasses. Thank you very much. Foraging parties and companies of marching beetles had crisscrossed the area, stirring up the ground. Thank you kindly. And it had been raining night after night. In a word, it was like a mini-swamp outside the walls, a true mudscape. So Bob waited. The beetles waited. George got bored and started sniffing the ground. You know I''ve always wanted to try this. He took one step forward, puffed out his chest, threw back his shoulders, billowed his cloak dramatically and called out his challenge: "Bring out your champion." He''d done it. He felt like Goliath standing in front of these badger-beetled. A mountain among mortals. Let''s just hope they don''t have a David in there. They didn''t. Or rather they didn''t send anybody out. Who''ve guessed, the beetles didn''t speak human or any real language so to their ears it just sounded like their intruder was being particularly noisy. Cultural exchange, alas, stands on the foundation of mutual intelligibility. That was less dramatic than I thought it would be. Bob scratched his head. Harry slumped down (no point continuing the display). We need some kind of signal. Some sort of universal let''s-get-to-business message. If only he had one of those whistling arrows they used to use in China to mark the start of a battle. He''d just have to make do with what he did have. Bob crouched down and fished out a pebble. It wasn''t quite a whistling arrow, but they say gifts are all about intention. Bob threw the pebble at the wall. It was a pebble. It was a wall. What do you think happened? A dull thud, an undamaged wall and the pebble plopped down into the mud. Bob''s intention, on the other hand, came across loud and clear. Chapter 59 - Flagpoled Bob looked up at the wall. The wall buzzed down at him ominously. They''d got the message alright. Violence is the universal language. Twenty beetles sprung away from their positions and droned down on Bob. What? The stupid beetles could fly. Why didn''t I think of that? Yeah, Bob, why didn''t you, most beetles can fly, it''s a pretty normal thing to consider. Stupidity is an infection. Let it into one corner of your plan and the next moment you know, your plan is dying on the ground at your feet. Bob was confronted with a hail of badger-sized beetles, all traveling towards him at viscous speeds, point-first. The animals, with a discipline that was disturbingly human, had targeted his general area and not just his person, meaning he had no easy escape paths and that George was also in danger. Still this wasn''t Bob''s first fight. And things had a tendency to go pear-shaped. At a certain point, you just learned to roll with the punches. Bob stepped in front of the dog, whipping off Harry and formulating his spell. Half a second later he was battering away the incoming enemies with a giant mud paddle. Ping pong anyone? It had been a gamble, but he''d guessed right. The beetles were surprisingly light for their size. They had to be if they''d retained flight at their size. His attack wasn''t damaging, but pushed them far enough off course that George and he avoided getting pin-cushioned. One unfortunate beetle landed hard, horn first in the mud and stuck there, danglingly off its own horn, its six legs kicking backwards and forwards as it tried to loosen itself. The remaining beetles ignored their unfortunate companion and formed up in an encircling manoeuvre. Their initial horn volley had been calculated to ensure beetles ended up on all sides of them. Bob groaned to himself when he noticed the strategy. They''d had a contingency plan? Wish I''d had one of those. In short order, Bob and George were completely surrounded, entrapped in a prison of pointed spears. And that''s when the beetles began a slow, coordinated march forward. Left, right, left, right, each step closing the net around them a little tighter. The black horns had a wicked gleam to them that Bob had no desire to experience in his own person. Was Bob worried? No, yes, a little. It was only sensible to be a little worried. The beetles had demonstrated strategic and tactical sophistication. War was their plaything. And they plainly knew what they were doing. But Bob here was the mud magician. He had his own plans cooking. He had one or two tricks up his sleeve yet. Or he ought to have, since he was the one who''d come knocking on these castle gates. "Don''t worry George. I''ll protect you. Uncle Bob''s on the case." George ignored Bob. "George, it''s at times like this when I could use an encouraging bark. You know, ''I believe in you Bob'' or ''you got this Bob.'' George!" Bob looked down to see the dog suck in a great breath of air and expel out a crimson triangle of flame. The dog patiently turned his head from left to right, lingering half-second on each beetle foe, as the fiery beam swept across the bottom half of their enemy''s encirclement. Bob gulped. That''s right Bob. George is stronger than you. You should focus on yourself Bob. Good advice. Taking advantage of the lightning decimation of their rear assailants, Bob backpedalled, hoping he could group up the remaining enemies and disrupt their coordination. It didn''t work. The beetles were unfazed. They came stoically forward, step by step, masterfully maintaining their crescent formation and always pivoting smoothly to keep Bob in centre. Bob wasn''t sure if he was moved or horrified. If he''d just seen half his company massacred and their burnt-out husk corpses on the ground in front of him, he certainly wouldn''t have kept his cool. Most likely he''d have broken at once and kept running until his legs failed him. But these beetles, did they have no fear? War is the death of the individual. Seeing his attempts to outmanoeuvre them were pointless, he stopped retreating and started thinking about his offensive options. Sitting in his camp chair, fresh from mutilating a spider from the inside out, Bob had lazily reasoned he''d just choke the buggers. But now he was seeing the beetles up close, he''d couldn''t work out where the beetles'' mouths was, or even whether they had mouths. There were mandibles sure, and presumably the mouth was in that general area, but the beetles didn''t seem to use it to breathe and there were no nose holes either. Where was he supposed to shove Harry through to do maximum damage?The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The beetles were almost on top of Bob now. He figured he''d have to try something. What about a mud spear, the mudpoon''s less sophisticated cousin. Bob reformed Harry into a pointed stick, double and triple hardening the spearhead. Just in time too, because one beetle, seeing itself in range, hopped forward stabbing at Bob with its horn. Bob repositioned Harry into the beetle''s line of approach. Crack. Harry''s mud point shattered against the beetle''s hard shell. The beetle kept coming, though the impact had knocked off its aim and the horn-point only grazed Bob''s left arm. Bob scrambled back, barely avoiding a follow up swipe from the beetle. But the beetle didn''t chase, instead waiting for its companions to catch up and falling back into lock-step. Bob gave Harry a disappointed look. It wasn''t like it was Harry''s fault though. Mud isn''t exactly steel. Death from inside was off the table. Death from outside was off the table. What the hell''s left on the table? I''m starting to reevaluate my combat effectiveness here. We can never quite achieve as much as we think we can. George was puttering around, behind Bob, collecting up all of the beetle bodies. Wow, Bob wondered how that looked to their comrade beetles. Probably like George was taking the time, mid battle, to shamelessly desecrate their dead. "George, I could use an assist." George turned his head back, saw Bob, saw the beetles, gave a doggy frown and got back to work. The message was clear: what''s the problem? Surely his master Bob could handle a bunch of weakling beetles. "I never should have made you my knight," Bob muttered to himself, as he dug his feet into the ground and prepared to make a stand. Since when did pet owners have to earn the respect of their pets? It''s supposed to be the over way around. So Bob had to prove himself worthy did he? Why couldn''t the dog just save him when he asked... There were nine beetles (not counting the one who remained flagpoled in the mud). They were advancing steadily, keeping a crescent moon formation, horns out. Come on, Bob, think. Bob could probably, probably mind, sink them all into an expanded mudfall. It would be a close thing. He''d have to displace a huge amount of mud to cover that area. He couldn''t multicast so he''d just have to sink the whole zone. That move would crater his mana reserves, making him combat-ineffective for at least the next five to ten minutes. If reinforcements arrived from the settlement, he''d be toast. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn''t confident he could keep so many beetles trapped simultaneously. If they coordinated an escape attempt, he wouldn''t be able to stop them. Mudfall was the attack of the ambush predator. It was practically worthless on a large-scale battlefield. Now that didn''t leave Bob many options. He could run, tail between his legs and hide behind the alpha dog: George Brown, the golden retriever. George would have no trouble carbonizing the remaining beetles. But the system didn''t work through hugs and pats on the head. You didn''t get a gold sticker for participating. You got a level-up for killing monsters in cold blood with your own hands. Self-responsibility and all. And he didn''t think he could survive the dog''s smug contempt. "Bob I''ve asked you before and I''ll ask you again. Put on that thinking cap of yours and come up with a working idea here." "Does that ever work? Are problems ever actually solved by management just shouting at employees, ''why don''t you think of something?''" "Bob I know you like complaining and that you''re rather good at it, but don''t you think it might be time to do a little problem solving." Bob backed away and the beetles chased patiently after. Bob had stored a surprise or two in George''s backpack, but trying to get George to spit out the right object in a combat situation was laughably optimistic. And George would probably consider that cheating anyway. What did Bob have on his person? A backpack, a water bottle, some rope, his discarded trainers and socks, the system knife. Yes he still had the system knife. After the fight with the crocodile he''d decided it was worth keeping the object on his person (even if he hated using it). He took it out now and clutched it in his left hand. His non-dominant left hand. The beetle''s exoskeleton was tough, but the system blade was designed for killing. The steel-forged weapon would probably punch right through. Now the little buggers were small. Their horns were only about a foot long. It was conceivable that Bob with his longer wingspan might be able to attack while staying outside of the range of their horns. And if there were just one, he might have tried that. But there were nine and they knew how to fight as a team. Bob''s right and left feet were probably less coordinated. Would George really let him die here? Maybe he just had to make a convincing enough show of danger and the dog would swoop in and save him. Dammit Bob. That''s not what this is about is it. When are you going to snap out of your survival mindset? It''s meaningless if George has to save you. Commit yourself to this fight. Commit yourself to victory or death. Bob swallowed and faced off against the marching beetle wall. Man is weak and flimsy. How does he overcome his enemies? Not through strength. But by the cunning use of tools. Bob needed to think of synergy. He didn''t just have a knife or his mud abilities. He had his knife and his mud abilities. So Harry, let''s put my mud arm to good use. He tossed the dagger from his left hand, the steel blade spinning in the air, you know as he projected an air of calm professionalism. I''m cool and ready, not arrogant, just confident enough to want to wrap things up. His mud cloak lashed forward and deftly caught the blade in an underhand grip, phasing liquid and then resolidifying around the cloak. Man I''ve always wanted to pull that off. Who''d guessed that today was the day Bob Brown decided to take up close combat. Chapter 60 - In the beginning The beetles marched silently forward, heads down, eyes ahead. These were grim veterans of a thousand struggles. Warriors. Merchants in death. They would slaughter without mercy, without hesitation, without regret. The war machine marched silently forward. The blade of their sickle formation cutting towards a lone figure in dark robes (and his golden retriever lying on the ground a few feet away). Against the assembled might of the beetle legion stood the mud magician, tall, proud and deadly, hood up, cloak rippling behind. The empty blues of an eastern sky as the sun tilts down far away. The mud magician crouched low, his mud arm clutching a long dagger in an underhand grip, as he awaited the enemy. The enemy marched forward and the mud magician leapt out. His mud arm swinging up and lengthening, before pillaring down in a diagonal slash. It was a vicious, life-ending strike. Thud, dammit, cough. The blade had twisted around in its descent and knocked harmlessly against the beetle''s shell. Of course, it was a trick, a demonstration. The mud magician was toying with his opponents. He was laughing at them. See how easily I can strike you down. The beetles slowed, wary at the furious outburst, yet uncertain, for their companion still walked and breathed and had all the markings of a living beetle. Still they grew cautious, as well they should be. Here was a dark and ominous enemy who could cut into their lines at will. In their caution, they grouped up, closing the gaps between soldiers and tightening together into a phalanx of spear points. Arrogant fools, to think, even for a moment, that such petty tricks could hold back the wrath of the mud magician. The mud magician held out his hand and the knife dropped into it. He spun the blade around and offered it back up to his mud cloak. The cloak rewound itself around the instrument, mud fingers twisting about the hilt and squeezing. No more messing around. No more Mr Nice Magician. The mud arm whipped left and right as the magician practiced his swings, testing the grip. The blade slipped out and dropped onto the ground. Dammit, cough. Behold the marvelous foresight of the mud magician. Battles are won by he that makes the most calculations. Only a true strategist could have discovered the faulty grip before committing to an attack. The mud magician started to stoop down. Nay, the mud magician does not stoop. He rose back up and his mud servant (Harry) flew down and retrieved the fallen blade. Dammit, cough. Foolish mud servant. Treachery. The blade had fallen down again. The mud magician stooped down and picked up. Behold the humility of the mud magician. Rather than trouble his servant, he himself stoops down and retrieves the weapon. The lowly beetles forget their places. They are dumb animals blind to the majesty of the mud magician. Watch how they advance on him even as he rubs his back and stretches side to side. How little they know of his subtle ways. And just when they think they have him cornered, the mud arm whips out like the scythe of death itself, a steel point glittering with blood-lust. The beetle captain, a bold lord among its beetles, hops into the path of the attack and brings its proud horn up to parry the blow. Oh ye of little faith. The mud shaft phases through the horn, its momentum undiminished, its fury unbroken. See the crinkled eyes of the beetle captain open in shock as the knife guts into its side and it hobbles back a few steps, yellow pus oozing out of its wound, before toppling over. How the mighty are fallen before the mud magician. The mud scythe springs back and hovers ominously over the head of the magician, the symbol of befalling death. Approach ye that seek the end. The beetles know no fear. They are the warriors of their clan. Those marked out for the grand ritual of death. The gaps close up. They attack as a single unit. The mud scythe rises, rises and falls down upon the lead beetle. But look, the beetle throws away its life, it defends itself not, the whole company charges together, committing to one desperate throw. What will happen to the mud magician? How can he withstand such reckless hate? Such single-minded determination? The mud magician, oh no, the mud magician, he stumbles back. No, he lures them into a trap. No, he falls over on the ground. The mud magician! The beetles close in around him. Horns stab at the fallen figure. The mud magician! But wait, he has disappeared into the ground. The mud magician is nowhere to be found. In the beginning was the Mud, and the Mud was with the Mud Magician, and the Mud was the Mud Magician. What''s this? The lead beetle crumples down, the wound on its back finally overcoming its strength, its yellow-green life-force dripping down onto the ground. Seven beetles stand on the field of battle. They shuffle and scuttle around looking for their great enemy, but he has vanished into the face of the earth. One beetle shudders, its body groans, it manages a few, final steps, but then slumps down unresponsive, even as its companion tries to prod it back to life. One fewer enemy of the mud magician.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The six remaining beetles group up, forming a hedgehog circle, an impenetrable bastion of black horn and beetle muscle. Except, there''s a dull impact and one beetle goes misty-eyed; it trips back a few paces, revealing a trail of yellow fluid spilling out onto the ground, before collapsing down. The beetles don''t cry out. They don''t tremble or flee. They are the soldiers of their clan, proud and disciplined even in defeat. Thud, another companion trembles, its heart-blood seeping out as it staggers over to its fellow, begging for aid, for aid that will not come. They stand on the field of the mud magician. The dead plains. The mud labyrinth. Squelch, the beetle jumps up into the air as the mud scythe emerges from under it; it''s escaped. No, there is no escape from the scythe of death. The blade bursts out of the mud and follows the beetle up into the sky, arching upwards and skewering into its softer underbelly; the beetle quivers, its wings gutter and stop, it falls out of the air and splashes into the mud. Death has claimed it. Only three beetles remain. The enemy is underground. The enemy is underground. He is under their feet. The beetles look to each other and to the fallen. They throw themselves into action; they dig at the mud with their mandibles; they stab their horns into the ground. They batter the mud with all their hope and fear. Over and over. Where is he? Where is the enemy? Where is the mud magician? And yet the mud plains are vast and nameless. And those who wander into the mud labyrinth are forever lost. The mud scythe javelins up, shooting past the black horn and into the eye of a beetle. The beetle trips, but grunts through the pain and manages to take off into the air, carrying away the enemy''s weapon. The mud shaft stretches and stretches and then collapses away, unable to maintain its grip over the distance. The heroic beetle manages twenty more feet before it plummets out of the sky and crashes into the plains. The other two beetles hurry after, frantic to deny the enemy his weapon, to validate the sacrifice of their companion. Don''t they see? Can''t they understand? This is the mud labyrinth and the mud magician is ruler here. Before their very eyes, before their helpless sight, their brother sinks into the mud, swallowed by the sleeping darkness. They can''t reach him. They can''t save him. Thunk. The mud scythe tears into the belly of a beetle. It drags itself forward. It doesn''t want to die. Not like this. Not in this one-sided slaughter. Thunk, the scythe strikes again, thunk, again and the mist of death settles over the beetle. The last beetle, the sole survivor. It turns left. It turns right. Everywhere the bodies of its brothers and the specter of the mud magician. It''s too much. Fear lives at the heart''s root. And to be alone is to be afraid. The beetle''s nerve breaks. This is no enemy, but a monster, an evil god of the mud, a darkness. There is no fighting, no resisting, only a hopeless, desperate flight. The beetle takes to the air. It runs away. It tries to fly back into the settlement, over the walls. But its compatriots turn against it. They bar the way. They block the passage. The beetle lands on the battlement. It tries to push past, but the wall of its unfeeling compatriots stands firm. They squeeze it back. One step, then another, then off the wall. The beetle topples down, catching itself just in time. Only to turn and make for the far grasses, to break free of the mud; it flies low to the ground, prioritizing speed, gathering momentum, as it dashes madly to safety. Thud. It shudders violently in the air and there in its chest is the scythe. That weapon of the enemy. It hasn''t escaped. There is no escape. It pushes forward, fighting against hope, but its altitude drips away until it streaks into the ground and slides into the final sleep. Ten paces back the mud whirlpools and a dark, muddy figure emerges. He stands like a giant over the dead beetles. A hulking death god mantled by darkness. He calls to the mud scythe and the weapon obeys. The weapon of death. Where are his enemies? Where is the legion of beetles? They lie at his feet, the defeated fallen. He looks up at the wall where the spectating beetles look down and the beetles all shrink back, hiding behind the lip of their fortifications, unwilling to met his eye. Unwilling to look into the eye of death. The mud magician treads forward. One enemy still breathes. One helpless foe. Just where it first dared to attack the mud magician. The beetle is trapped in the mud, suspended off the ground by its own horn and no matter how it writhes and struggles, the mud does not relinquish its prey. The mud keeps its own. The mud magician treads forward. The beetle has watched the whole fight, beginning to end. The beetle knows what is coming. It rocks itself from side to side; it tears at its own horn, clattering its mandibles together. The mud magician treads forward. And the beetle knows. Finally it knows. There is no escape. Death is already here. The beetle is already dead, just unknowing. And when the beetle sees that truth, it falls still, waiting for the hand of darkness. The mud magician treads forward. The mud magician stops. The mud magician looks down on his helpless enemy. The mud magician pauses. Is that pity? Does the god of death feel pity? The mud scythe comes up. The mud scythe comes down. Death. Death. Death. The beetle crumbles to the ground and only a horn is left standing there in the mud. Chapter 61 - Material Engineering "Well George, are you happy now?" Bob flicks off his hood and glances at the dog. George is lying nonchalantly a couple paces back, licking his paw. "Are you happy now? Do you respect your master." George barks. "And don''t you forget it." Bob waves a hand at the space next to him, "now, George, what about that camping chair." Pop, the chair materializes already unfolded. "Thank you kindly," Bob ruffles the dog''s head in thanks, as he turns the chair to face the ramparts and sits down. George interprets the action as permission to "borrow" Bob''s dead. He bounces up and bounds off to continue corpse collecting. "George, do the corpses stack or something? How are you able to fit so much in your storage space? Surely it can''t be infinite." George doesn''t answer. The mystery of the golden retriever is one of profound and limitless depth. Bob was worn out. Yes he''d mostly been resting a couple feet under the mud, directing Harry via his mud sense. But the sustained concentration required, not to mention the continual adrenaline rush, really sapped away at the body''s resources. It wasn''t mana shortage. Manipulating Harry was highly mana-efficient. The only big-ticket spells had been submerging himself and that beetle who''d run off with his knife. No, Bob''s brain was the limiting factor. Dare I say it, intelligence. Truth be told however, did he really have to tell the truth, did anyone, lies were comfortable and comforting, but truth be told, the fight had been a closer thing than it might have appeared to the beetle spectators. They probably concluded he''d been in no danger throughout, the master of the fight from start to bloody end, but that was far from the truth. The whole show had been one of near misses and lucky chances. For example, that mud-scythe idea had been an absolute shot in the dark. Just between you and me, Bob had been on the verge of abandoning the strategy entirely after Harry had dropped the knife twice in a row. Imagine if that had happened mid-fight; it might have been a disaster. He and Harry would have to work on their grip strength later. And that wasn''t even getting into the fact that Bob had very nearly been kebabbed. Yes he wasn''t exaggerating. Kebabbed is the appropriate verb. One of those beetles had seemed to sniff out where his hiding and had stabbed its horn down straight at him. Thankfully he wasn''t beetle shaped and the horn had penetrated between Bob''s legs, only an inch below the family jewels. He''d quickly gutted the animal and then did his best to hide under the corpse. But talk about grotesque. Yes there was a layer of mud between himself and the body, but Bob could sense through mud. He knew what was lying over him. He''d gotten lucky at other points as well. The beetles weren''t stupid, but they weren''t smart either. They hadn''t caught on to the fact that he could only sense through the mud and didn''t have some all-seeing eye on the battlefield. If the one beetle hadn''t flown directly up, Bob never would have been able to bring it down. And if that other beetle hadn''t flown low enough to the ground that its flight disturbed the mud, Bob never could have figured out its trajectory. Thankfully perceptions become reality. Nobody had to know how chancy and all-over-the-place the battle had really been. Bob would keep those truths locked up in his head. And he''d tell a grand story if somebody asked: I, the mud magician, alone, without my weapon, stood facing down a horde of giant beetles, I raised up my hand and... You get the picture. Ok. Bob had sat for a couple minutes. He''d had some water. He went to the bathroom (he''d conjured up a little privacy mud screen). His mana was replenished. His spirits were restored. He had a couple notifications pending. But you only get to play video games when you''ve finished all your homework. And there was a lot of beetle-work still to do. "George, what''d you say we get back to our side project, you know," he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, "beetle genocide." Bark! "Attaboy." Bob rose up from his chair and nodded to the dog, who popped the chair away into his inventory. That never got old. Bob wished he had his own inventory and didn''t have to rely on the mercurial golden retriever. The grass is always greener... Those grass walls really were green weren''t they? Like a striking, vivid green. It was much more dramatic than the grey stone of European fortresses.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! "You know I almost feel sorry for them George," he indicated at their finely crafted grasswork, "it''s truly impressive what they''ve built here. A city in the grasslands. I mean, it''s miles better than my cruddy settlement. And we, unfortunate souls, are forced, by circumstance, against our will, to burn the whole thing down. It makes you tear up boy doesn''t it?" The dog barked with a grin on its face. "George, I''m not sure you''re reading the room right. This is the sad moment. Put on a sad face." George barked excitedly. "Yep that''s the face of a mass-murdering dog alright. That''s our George. Well whatever, it was always going to come to this in the end." Bob and George walked together up to the wall, watched by hundreds of beetle eyes from the ramparts above. The gallery made no aggressive moves. They didn''t seem to have any ranged attacks and they''d given up on foraying out. The ritual slaughtering of their best company had been a hard lesson for the animals. They had walls so why not use them. Smart, yes, stupid, yes. Hadn''t they seen George in action? It was a tragedy for the little creatures. Bob couldn''t help being reminded of the story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf, cough, the big bad golden retriever. The moral was perfectly clear: sometimes life and death comes down to simple Material Engineering. Sure grass is a noble material. It''s renewable, highly versatile, wonderful insulating properties; I mean, it''s aesthetic, just look at these emerald walls, those are the structures you write poems about. Aesthetic and flammable. "George, you want to do the honors." Bark, confusion, realization, pop, a stick dropped at Bob''s feet. "George, either you''re making fun of me, or your level of conversational comprehension is much lower than I have been assuming." Bob picked up the stick and pretended to throw it into the distance. George ran after it, slowed, looked around, looked around some more, got bored, looked back, saw the stick, rushed back and popped it out of Bob''s hand. Yeah very much still a dog. Was Bob being mean? Maybe. Was the sadness of thinking you''ve lost a thing greater than the happiness felt upon finding again? Who can say? Dogs can''t talk after all. "Ok George. I see you need the thing done properly. Half of me believes you just enjoy going through the whole sequence. But you win. I''ll play along." Bob stepped closer to the wall and turned to face his charge. He straightened himself up and extended his index finger: "Sit!" George pulled himself up into the canine''s classic posture. "Shake," Bob leaned forward to hold his left hand for George to grasp, whoosh, out of the corner of Bob''s eye, he saw a black shadow streak over his head, instinctively backing away, he tripped forward, just as two other black points erupted into the space behind him. He felt a sharp pain in his lower back. "I''ve been hit, I''ve been hit, those confounded rascals," he moaned as he crawled frantically away, only turning after he''d put five good paces between himself and the wall. The wall with three black beetle horns protruding ominously out of it. "George, what''s it look like?" Bob pulled up his cloak and shirt, as George nosed forward and gave the cut a salty lick. "Don''t lick it George. Stupid dog." It hurt terribly, terribly, like the end of the world was coming, or wait, did it, it actually didn''t feel that bad; yeah it hardly hurt at all. Bob managed to get a hand around his back and there was barely any blood. Only a pin-prick, a mere scratch. Bob already felt better. He probably didn''t even need a health patch. That didn''t stop him from slapping one on just in case. Do you think these patches are mildly addictive? How many had Bob gone through in the last week? Bob sat up and started to describe his heroism to George. "George, did you see my dodge there? Practically psychic. It was like I knew, without knowing, that the attack was going to come. And you saw how calm and determined I was, despite suffering serious injury." George ignored Bob and snarled at the wall. "You''re right George. I agree entirely. That was extremely rude. And you remember I almost felt sorry for the creatures. George, I think it''s time we taught them how weaknesses work." The beetles had retracted their horns and Bob glared at the holes in the wall. Wait a moment, I''ll be able to see what it''s like inside the fort. Bob started to walk forward, planning to put an eye on that hole. Bob, what''s wrong with you? You know there''s a beetle standing on the other side of the hole ready to horn you. Do you want to get eye horned? Good point. Was that a pun? Does it matter Bob? Something about a peep-hole demands peeping, but Bob controlled the impulse. Bob would get a good look inside after they''re roughed up these walls. "Ok George, sit." The dog sat. "Shake." The dog shook. "Lie Down. Roll Over." The dog lay down and rolled over. "Wait." The dog waited. "Fire." The dog unleashed the fires of hells, in a black and ret jet of molten energy that bathed itself over the grass wall in a beam of condensed fire. Bob stepped back horrified. No matter how many times you saw the attack, somehow you couldn''t get used to its sheer destructive qualities. George was an ally, but Bob still felt himself quaking in his boots. How did those beetles on top of the walls feel? As every respectable gamer knows, grass is weak to fire. AKA the first truth of material engineering. The walls incinerated like crumpled up paper. Flames danced along the structure, eating their way from panel and panel, licking over the ramparts and spitting up columns of black smoke. The emerald island was transformed into a sea of blistering flames, into a hellscape of crumbling structures. The beetles buzzed left and right, some losing their way in the smoke and crashing down in to the fires, but most retreated back deeper into the fort. Bob and George waited. Bob clicked his tongue impatiently. "Come on. Come on." It didn''t take long. In two minutes the mighty gateway was a pile of smoldering ash. In two minutes the labor of a thousand creatures was melted away, dust before the wind. The Visigoths had come for Rome. And Rome was not ready for them. The end of an empire. Barbarians at the gate. The mud magician, face masked in his dark cloak, stepped over the threshold and into the eternal city. Chapter 62 - Monster The beetles looked to sky and it was black; veiled over by thick, stinging clouds of smoke. The beetles looked to their city and it was red; angry flames devouring structure after structure. The beetles looked to the ground and it was grey; the ashes of their hopes and dreams. And then the beetles looked to their hearts and there was only death; death, despair, ruin. Judgement day was upon them. And these were the harbingers of the apocalypse. The mud god and his golden angel. Agents of divine destruction. How could they resist? How could they stand against these messengers of the end? All their drills and formations, their practice and training, it was worthless, meaningless in this chaos of black smoke and red fire. Their war games and battle honor, their champions and berserkers, powerless, helpless against the strength of the strong. The world was ending around them. The sky was falling. Demons walk the earth. Bob walked slowly across the threshold. The smoke stung at his eyes. The hot air pressed against exposed skin. The city was burning. And everywhere there were beetles, dying or fleeing, broken or breaking. There was so many, so many more than he''d ever imagined. There must have been thousands. It was a city, a civilization, a nation of beetles. It was all burning. The beetles didn''t even try to attack. Nobody even dared. As soon as they laid eyes on him, they would grow manic and demented, throwing themselves into the flames, crashing into the walls of their homes, anything to put one more step between themselves and the enemy. And all the while, the mud scythe swept left and right, thud, thud, thud, each blow a killing wound, a knife to the back or chest, a corpse on the ground and a smear of yellow-green blood. He was the instrument of death. Bob''s mind was quiet, empty. He didn''t know what he was thinking, if he was thinking at all. He could taste the death in the air. Death solidified, given-form, a smell and a taste and a shade of misery to the scene. This is what he came for. To rape the city. To pillage and murder. He was the conqueror and experience was the new god and this was his sacrifice in Her name. Thud, thud, thud, the mud scythe reaped its price of weary souls, thud, thud, thud. Bob treaded forward. The city had once been shaded. There had been a vast canopy, a slanted roof, stretched across the settlement, in that distinctive grass-green. Bob hadn''t noticed before, but the treated-grass let through a trickle of warm light, so that you could feel a tinkle of sunshine against your skin. The ground had been layered with soft, fuzzy grass that hugged your toes. It must have been a happy place. He saw storerooms, overflowing with fresh grasses; he imagined he could almost smell it, that smell of cut grass, sweet with an earthy sharpness; it made him think of open fields and blue skies. Then fingers of flame pried through the walls and feasted on the stored grass, exploding upwards and scattered more red demons. Thud, thud, thud, it was impossible to miss; every blow was death; the beetles have nowhere to flee; the flames have got ahead of them and some turn back, only to freeze when they lay eyes on Bob and circle forlornly, until the mud scythe strikes out and they topple down. Thud, thud, thud, Bob doesn''t know what he sees, doesn''t know what he''s doing. This is not the world. This is not the world. George whines in the back of his throat. He doesn''t want to be here. He''s afraid. He pulls on Bob''s leg. Let''s go home, the dog begs, let''s go away. Thud, thud, thud. Every time the knife impacts, the world seems to rock. Bob''s flinching at the sound. He laughs. He''s flinching at the sound of his own attack. Bob keeps walking, deeper and deeper, he''s seeing the city like it once was, like it might have been, and at the same time he stares into this painting of inferno. George whines and whimpers. The dog''s spooked. He looks back at the gateway, but smoke has settled down and over, and you can''t even tell which is the way out. Thud, thud, thud. George starts to bark. The dog''s barking at Bob. Loud, jarring barks, deep, guttural calls that scrape at the air. Bob doesn''t hear. He''s in a trance. He''s the instrument of death. He''s the instrument of death. And all of a sudden he stops. Bob''s hand rises up and points out dim shapes in front of them. "What''s that?" He asks in a whisper. He already knows, but he doesn''t want to say. A nursery. The young beetles. The larvae and pupae. The beetle eggs in little clusters, tucked thoughtfully into patches of grass. How could they escape? The fires were everywhere. The smoke was everywhere. Where could they escape to? Bob chokes up. He feels slimy inside. It was one thing to fight their warriors out on the plains. It was one thing to defend oneself against an enemy. It was one thing to take the life of a vicious monster. But this, this felt different. This felt evil.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. "Are these really monsters? They don''t look like monsters to me." Bob feels tears running down his face. The heat from the fire rips them away leaving only glittering streaks of salt. Bob pulls up his hood. Because it was out of his hands now, wasn''t it? The fire was a living thing, a demon of hunger, gorging itself on the green city in snatched handfuls. There was no stopping it. You can''t put a bomb back inside its shell. Was this the way to greatness? To strength? Did the path go through these ugly places? Somehow the books didn''t write about this. What would Jonny have said? Jonny the Man. Would he have done this? Is this what it means to be a man? The mud scythe has frozen in place, blade poised over a beetle trying to drag itself away from him. He hesitates. The grand canopy over their heads shudders. It feels like the ground itself is shaking because all shadow and light sways with it, distorting the shapes around them. The roof shudders again. There are too many beetles up there and the supports are smoldering away. Crack, the roof tears itself off and the whole thing comes down on top of them as a burning rain. Bob just manages to sweep Harry up in time and harden him into a makeshift shield, protecting himself and the dog. They''re safe, Bob crouching beside George, they''re safe, but Bob trembles, trying to think of anything else. But the mind is cruel to its master. The young beetles. The eggs, the larvae. Who has protected them? Not Bob, not Bob. Fire and death. And through the smoke and dust, there is a rushing sound. It starts as a trickle and in a half-second is a roaring wave of noise. Bob pulls back the cloak, only to be swallowed up by a tidal wave. What the? Have the gods picked their side? Is this divine retribution? The waters drag Bob off his feet, turning him over, spinning him round, he clings to George. "George, don''t leave me, don''t leave me!" The currents cunningly get between and rend them apart. "George, George!" The water flickers with reflected red eyes. Bob slips under, ah the dark silence, the peace, everything is a dream and a memory, then he bobs up and the fire is hissing and spitting, the low buzzes, the crackling, it''s all real, it''s all real and under he goes, before the waves crashes down on top of them, shattering the world into pieces of white foam. He impacts the ground, soft ground, mud. He''s back on the mud plains. The water has washed him clean out of the settlement. The dark waters have circuited the settlement, quenching away the firestorm, bringing silence and emptiness. "George, where are you?" Bob calls out. Bob''s lost his knife, ripped out of his hand by the wave. "George!" The beetles must have had their own reservoir where they trapped runoff from the canopy against the far walls. All that rain... "George!" Bob calls, but there is no answer. The plains are speckled with flotsam. Beetle corpses, living beetles, torn off pieces of hardened grass, stones, the ruins of a city. Bob closes his eyes and searches with his mud sense. There, he runs off in the direction of the first warm, moving object, but stops as soon as he makes out the rounded beetle form. The beetle sees him. He expected it to flee, to quiver and shrink back, but the beetle sneers at him and finding a chunk of grass-brick, it starts to tap its horn. The rhythmic, repeating sound cuts across the silence. And for a moment it''s just a lone voice, thin, weak, hollow in the grand spaces, and then the call is picked up and chorused back until the air shivers with resonating echoes. Bob staggers back. What has come over them? The ominous music plays up over the plain and Bob trembles at the sound. What has changed? Why aren''t they afraid. The fire? Were the beetles afraid of fire? Or maybe it was despair, maybe they''ve already decided the city is lost and that they''ve rather die on their feet? Either way the beetles are coming. They are forming up, rank after rank, every last survivor, anyone who can stand and fight. And Bob hasn''t found George. He closes his eyes. He stills his mind. He needs to concentrate. There are so many objects, and water is puddled here and there, and the music of the horns cut into his thoughts. George is larger than the beetles. He should feel different. His soft fur and hard backpack. Bob searched the whole plain in front of him, wandering in thought all the way back to the city walls, but there was his limit, there was the end of the mud. An invisible barrier that swept across his vision. "George might still be inside," he bit his lip and gazed at the ruins of the town. He''d have to fight his way through. The beetles were arraying themselves. Their lines were many ranks deep and stretched straight across the plain, across the gateway. Somehow he''d have to get past. Could he get past? Not a chance. Shut up, Bob. We''ve been through this before. I''m not going on without that dog. The last army of the beetles. Their death march against the destroyer of their homeland. Rank after rank of black horn and bitter vengeance. Bob swallowed, he steadied himself, he didn''t have a plan, he couldn''t think of anything. He''d run through them. What other way was there? They knew he could go underground. They''d never let him pass. And there was no mud in the city. He''d have to surface. Yes, he''d just run through. That would work, maybe. Dammit all. George was somewhere back there. George needed him. Even a monster will die for love. Even a monster. "For George," Bob whispered to himself and the words sobered him. They gave him the strength and courage he hadn''t quite been able to find in himself. "For George," he said again, now louder. "For George," he war-cried, shouting over the trumpets of the enemy, as he took off at a sprint and plunged straight at waiting death. Chapter 63 - The King of Shapes Ruff! Were Bob''s ears playing tricks on him? Don''t pull that shit with me Bob. That there''s the voice of fear. You''ve decided. You promised him. You promised him. You said you''d look out for him. And he needs you. The call had felt distant, imagined almost, conjured up from the rhythmic war music of the beetles. The beetles stood ready, battle line after battle line, and each tapped its horn against its fellow''s, creating double echoes that seem to shiver in the air. Bob paced up; he was running at top speed, the beetles waiting for impact with leveled horns. Bob swallowed down his fear. He pulled up his hood. Sight wouldn''t help him here. He''d trust in luck and Harry and hope. Maybe once he got in their midst they wouldn''t be able to use their horns effectively. He''d jump over the first line then barrel through. He''d manage. He''d been in tighter spots before. Ruff! Bob knew that voice. He tried to turn and look over his shoulder without slowing down. He tripped, splatting into the wet mud, still a good thirty paces from the beetles (Bob was a slow runner). Bob peeled himself out of the mud and looked back: "George?" It was George all right. There was the dog trotting happily towards his master. George was a fair deal lighter than Bob and it looked like the wave had carried him further out into the plains, even to the edge of the grasslands. The dog had probably just now made it back onto the mud flats and in sight of Bob (hence the barking). "Dammit George," Bob pounded his fist against the mud as his mouth wrestled itself out of his control and into a giant grin. He shook his head and quietly thanked his lucky stars, before glaring at the dog. "You confounded dog. Do you have any idea how much you made me worry? I was... I was..." Bob sputtered. George licked Bob''s cheek. "Don''t think I''ll forgive you just like that. Don''t think for a moment," he pointed at the army of beetle, "I was about to die for you George. You realize that right. I, Bob Brown, was about to throw myself into a line of armed monsters like some Greek hero, for your damn sake, and what were you doing, why you, I bet you were just frolicking around in the grass. Stop it George, stop it, it tickles." Bob giggled as he pushed away the dog. "George, time and place. This is serious. We have problems." Bob got himself up and dusted himself off. "And George, don''t think this conversation is over. I''m pissed. I mean you set me up for a glorious self-sacrifice scene and then you burst in at the last moment with a how-do-you-do. Bullshit." Still George might have showed up thirty seconds later, so Bob would count his blessings. Either way the dream team was back together. It was time to rumble: Bob Brown, junior QA developer; George Brown, unemployed dog VS Horde of suicidal Kriegsk?fer (levels 3-5). Fight! Bob picked his nose. Shut up. It was a nervous tic. He couldn''t help it. It''s not like anybody was looking. The beetles ground forward. Bob had expected a kamikaze rush, but the beetles kept discipline. Long practice, the flat ground, the familiar formation all proved sufficient tonic to any roiling emotions. "George, any plans?" Ruff! "No I don''t mean for later. I mean, plans for dealing with them." He thumbed over at the beetles. The beetles really ought to have kamikaze rushed. Bob and George were shooting the breeze. Bob was weaponless. George was a dog. They were easy pickings. Sometimes traditions are the death of a civilization. Instead there was a slow and ordered advance, step by step, as the beetles edged imperceptibly forward. Bob shaded his eyes and watched them come. He reckoned he had at least thirty seconds before the beetles reached them, maybe longer. "Actually, aha!" Bob turned around and strode fifty paces back. He had maybe a minute and a half now. Progress. Now he''d just have to cobble up a plan. Bob started to smile. In the confusion, the noise, the adrenaline, Bob had almost forgotten that he''d actually prepared for this encounter in advance. He didn''t need to make a plan. He already had a plan. "George," he eyed the dog with a mean glint that would have struck terror into any beetle heart, "you''ve got those things I asked you to bring right?" George tilted his head. "Don''t do that to me. You know all that stuff we prepared." George stared into the distance, his head sort of tipped from one side to the other. "George, George..." There was a warning snarl to the way Bob said the name. George barked. "Great, you remembered. Thank the system. Ok, can you pull out those walls for me." George started to move. "Wait! I know you. You''re going to put them all out in the same spot aren''t you? Or maybe lying on the ground or something. And then when I ask you to pick them up again, you''ll pretend you don''t understand or can''t. Or do some other stupid thing. Look George, this is serious. Please do exactly what I tell you, okay." Bob indicated a position on the ground, shaping out the desired angle and origination with his hands. "Here." Pop, a seven-foot tall brick wall appeared on the spot. Bob repeated his mimings. Pop, pop, pop. Bob stepped back and nodded appreciatively. Nothing quite compares to modular architecture.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. He was looking at a makeshift bunker. Six walls ingeniously arranged and designed by yours truly. The entrance had two walls set at opposing angles that acted like a funnel. This entranceway was connected to a three wall open square which formed a little room. And then the whole structure was roofed over with a single, giant overhanging flat-piece. Now it should be obvious that when Bob said brick wall, he meant mud-brick wall. In general feel free to prefix or suffix "mud" to anything Bob says. Example: mud-wait, I-mud know-mud you-mud. Yes they were mud-brick walls. It was a man-dog collaboration. Bob had shaped the walls using his mud powers and George had fired them with his fire breath. Naturally, they''d been a good deal of experimentation and many slabs of ruined mud-brick. But the results spoke for themselves. Bob tapped on the walls. A veritable pop-up fortress, don''t you know. And between you and me, Bob had learned a little thing or two about material engineering in the process. You''ll observe these walls are not made of grass. And its virtues don''t end there either. Composed of premium mud, "the good stuff", and fired at frankly ridiculous temperatures (courtesy of one golden retriever), these were mud-bricks of legend. And don''t take my word for it. Bob was a skeptical member of the MQA. He knew how to test a thing. So let''s just say, a full-power stab from the system knife had barely put a scratch in these bricks. Now, credit where credit is due, the beetle horns were deadly weapons, sharp, fearsome, capable of penetrating shell and grass-wall, but there wasn''t a chance in hell they''d get through these bricks. "Whoops," Bob had spent a little too long admiring his handiwork and had to dodge two or three well-aimed horn attacks. The beetles were coming. "Inside George." Bob and George hurried down the funnel entrance and squeezed through. It was a tight fit, maybe 25-30 centimeters at the narrowest point. The two of them stood there in the small, stuffy room with only a chink of light passing from the outside. "It''s not very cozy in here," Bob complained. The beetles had tried to follow, but good design is the greatest weapon of them all. It might have been stupid to attack a nation of beetle. Foolish, arrogant, suicidal. But at least Bob hadn''t gone about it in a stupid way. You remember what I said. Bob was smart-stupid. He did stupid things in smart ways. And that makes all the difference. Bob watched through the gap as the beetles tried to navigate the funnel. He couldn''t help himself. He started to laugh. Man that must have really annoyed the beetles. To see their great enemy only feet away from them, in veritable striking distance, and yet looking down on their struggles and laughing. Needless to say, the funnel architecture was a masterstroke. It might have been the best idea Bob had ever had. Of course, funnels were a mainstay of defensive fortification. They negated an enemy''s numerical superiority, forcing them to group up while at the same time allowing an easy, attack vector for defenders. But none of that was what had convinced Bob his bunker needed a funnel. See these Kriegsk?fer each had a foot-long horn sticking out of their foreheads. Now imagine, if you will, trying to navigate an ever narrowing funnel, while you''re being squeezed from three sides, with a foot-long horn waving all over the place. Imagine yourself if you will, at the mercy of the funnel. Bob watched with mounting schadenfreude as the beetles pressed into the funnel. Seven of them marched through, gradually getting squashed closer and closer together as the walls narrowed; some tried to fall back, but seven of their comrades had followed on close behind, blocking escape. And that''s when it happened: one beetle''s horn got caught against the side of the funnel. It was the beginning of the end. The poor beetle was pushed from behind before it could probably readjust itself, getting twisted entirely around, all the while the horn still jammed in place. This was war and the beetle company couldn''t turn itself around just because one of its number had fallen over. The back pressure grew and grew and then, snap. Bob gagged. Cut a man some slack; it was really gruesome. The horn had actually been snapped clean off the beetle''s head. No not quite clean, a chunk of fiber and muscle came with the horn, dripping yellow-green slime and the hornless beetle passed out (a mercy). Bob shook his head. What an awful way to die. He looked away as the advancing soldiers mercilessly crushed their unconscious fellow underfoot. The next incident involved a front-liner being skewered by a back-liner. In general the back ranks kept their horns partially raised, but one soldier distracted by a shove to the back lowered its horn just as the beetle two rows in front of it suddenly stopped. The horn obviously hurt, because the poked beetle tried to spin around and get eyes on his assailant. An action that plunged the whole line into absolute chaos, starting a chain reaction of further incidents, trapped horns and friendly fire. Sometimes all you need to stop an army is a well-placed funnel. "George, we''re going to be here for a while. What about that chair?" George obliged. Bob sat himself down in the chair. Might as well get comfortable. He''d like a soft, orange life, something atmospheric. A cup of tea and a few biscuits wouldn''t go amiss either. He pulled up the system stop. They were out of pylon range, but now seemed like a good time to splurge. Bob groaned: System shop locked during combat What part of this constituted combat? That designation seems rather loose. He was sitting in his chair watching the show. And George, wow, you''ve got to hand it to the dog, he knows how to do a thing right. George had pulled out all the stops. First came his red bowl, then the box of dog food and finally the fancy, new bed. If only all combat was so comfortable. Bob watched the dog chow down with real envy. He wished he''d been a little bit better supplied, but at least he wasn''t standing. He sipped on the bottle of water from his pack and leaned back in the chair. The beetles had managed to reorganize somewhat in the meantime. They''d pulled away the dead and started back down the funnel. This time three-beetles abreast. They even left a little more space between each line now. Smart little animals, weren''t they? Unfortunately, there''s nothing quite like a funnel. The funnel is the king of shapes. Still it was a valiant effort and Bob applauded the creatures. He was rooting for the insects heart and soul. They made it a whole ninety-percent down the tunnel, within one foot of the little gap, before things started going pear-shaped. The three beetles were compressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, every movement of the one impacting across his fellows. And somehow these creatures had to coordinate getting all three of their horns into a 25cm gap. It was like trying to thread three strings into the same needle using your head. And they might have managed it too, eventually, given enough time... Alas, the beetles might have left more space between their ranks, but they hadn''t quite worked out to stop and wait for the line in front. So three more beetles came up and then three more. And their horns passed over the shoulders of the forward lines, just far enough that they interfered with the needle threading attempts. And then another three beetles came up and another. A veritable scrum of beetles choked up the funnel. It turned into a complete traffic jam, a real beetle-on-beetle sandwich. Then some more enterprising beetles (bright minds) decided they''d just climb on top of their fellows. First it was two beetles high, then three, then four, then they hit the ceiling. The funnel looked something like the inside of a pin-cushion. Horns to the left of you, horns to the right, horns behind and in front. It was one precarious tower of beetle jenga-pieces. Oh that tower was begging for an audacious player to pull out just the right piece. And here was Bob, sitting at his leisure, looking for something to do. Chapter 64 - The burden of the strong Jenga''s a tricky game. You''ve got to have a grasp on several high-level architectural concepts: load and centre of gravity, leverage and the distribution of forces. Bob studied the board with an intensive, creative focus. He''d liked to think of himself as a sculptor trying to see the statue hidden with the stone. An ordinary man just sees a lump of a rock. The sculptor, the sculptor sees his masterpiece. Now an ordinary man, peering out of the bunker window, might just have seen beetles. The funnel was crammed to overflowing with beetles, from one side to the other, from floor to ceiling, on every diagonal axis; the funnel''s point was a jungle of black horns, most trapped against different parts of the walls, but some still half-heartedly seeking the narrow entrance slit. Bob was a sculptor. He saw the terrible potential, the hidden beauty. If he just could lay his mud-finger on the right spot... Bob sat with the mud. He let the mud-sensations sweep over him. He deliberated. He pondered. He measured. Sculpture really all comes down to that first tap of the chisel. There. He''d found it. He tapped the mud. It was a subtle action, a prod, a little nudge. At one particular spot, halfway down the tunnel and slightly to the left, the mud just gave way. Only a touch, mind, just enough for one beetle to slip a step. One tiny slip, and the beetle on its back fell sideways, which pushed the supporting beetle off to the right, his horn knocking into another beetle. That beetle lost his balance, throwing off the beetles on his back and tripping forward into yet another beetle. In three seconds, the grand tower of the beetles was reduced to a dust of writhing, bloody corpses. Bob relaxed in his chair. "I completely understand the appeal of good fortifications. It really takes the tension out of fighting. Gives the phrase armchair general a completely new spin." The beetle contingent in the funnel was destroyed. The higher creatures had fallen onto the horns of the lower creatures, the lower creatures were crushed under the falling bodies of the higher creatures. Everybody flailed desperately, slashing their horns into anybody nearby and the scrum struggled backwards and forwards, murdering any wounded lying on the ground. Yellow beetle blood was splashed across every inch of the funnel. Gulp, gulp, gulp, the funnel swallows down your tribute. Oh yes, the funnel was the greatest military invention since greek fire, there could be no doubt of that. It was a glorious victory, but Bob knew it wouldn''t last. Sooner or later, Bob was going to have come up with a more direct way of dealing with these unwelcome trespassers. The animals had proved themselves amazingly adaptive. It wouldn''t be too long before they figured out how to navigate the funnel. He really needed a medium-range weapon, a spear or bow, something he could use from within the safety of the bunker, ideally while sitting down. If he''d had the system knife, problem solved. His mud-scythe had shown itself more than capable of bringing down streams of enemy fighters. But he didn''t have the knife. The great wave had knocked it out of his hand. Who would''ve thought the day would come when I''d miss that thing? Bob remembered his roots, stuck up a tree, with Grumpy-nose staked out under him. He''d come a long way, hadn''t he? He didn''t have the knife, so he needed a substitute. He wasn''t picky. He didn''t need And¨²ril (flame of the west). Just something sharp and pointy that he could use as the tip of his scythe. Was there any obsidian lying around? He felt around the mud bunker with his mud sense. It''s really pleasant to be able to look for a thing without having to get out of your chair. No obsidian here, no sharp rocks either. Most disappointing. And he was supposed to be the lucky one? Where on earth could he find himself a sharp, pointed thing? Bob rested his chin on his elbow and gazed blankly out into the funnel as he tried to think of something he could use. Most of the assault force was dead or dying. All of them were injured. And those with any strength left were dragging themselves towards the exit. What would they report to their leaders? The beetle commander asks the survivor, "What happened to your division?" "Friendly fire." "What do you mean, friendly fire? You sustained 95% losses." "Yes, captain, all friendly fire." "What? You mean the enemy didn''t even attack?"Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "No, sir." "What? You!" Beet-red in the face, "I''m having you court-martialed." Those horns really were a double-edged blade in enclosed spaces. Bob snapped his fingers. Sometimes the answer''s right in front of you. "George," the dog had been drifting off into a nap; Bob shook him awake with his foot. "George, you collected up all those corpses didn''t you?" George nodded sleepily. "What about that last one I killed on the plain. The one who was trapped by his horn?" George nodded sleepily. "Perfect. Perfect," Bob tented his fingers and smiled creepily, "give me the horn." Pop, the horn appeared on the ground. Bob bent down and examined the weapon. One foot-long, jet-black, spiralled and tapering to a vicious point, it was an instrument of death. Bob nodded appreciatively. "This''ll do, this''ll do nicely. Come Harry." The mud cloak melted over the horn, resolidified around the base and then floated up to Bob''s waiting hand. Bob weighed the new weapon. It was a fearsome creation. That point looked like something out of a nightmare. Picture an evil unicorn if you will. He was ready now. His mud scythe was forged anew. Let every beetle quake with fear. There was a poetic justice to it, wasn''t there? It was cruel and unfair of course, but there was a poetry to all the same. To fight the enemy with his own weapon. To steal the enemy''s strength and make it one''s one. Yes, this was the weapon for destroying the civilization of the beetles. Those beetles had settled on a new plan. They''d learned to respect the funnel. No more companies marching in lock-step, no more fancy phalanxes. Nope, they''d come in one at a time. And the next beetle wouldn''t enter the gauntlet until the first had either triumphed or fallen. Honorable combat. Mano a mano. Or in other words, they''d decided to duel Bob to death. Bob smiled to himself. "Did I just create an experience farm? George, did I just create an experience farm? Yes, George, yes I did. You know," taking on an air of profound contemplation, "sometimes an idea can be so brilliant, so earth-shattering, that even its inventor can''t grasp the extent of its genius. And only the unfolding of time can reveal the marvels hidden within." Bob adjusted his chair a little, sitting close enough to the gap to have a good view and easy access, but far enough that a lucky beetle wouldn''t skewer him. He set up the mud-scythe so that the blade was on the beetle side of the gap. Challenger number one treaded cautiously forward. The beetle could see the black-horn leveled at it from the gap. It wasn''t stupid, but then it wasn''t fast enough. "Mud stomp," Bob called out and the mud scythe stomped down in a blazing arc and smashed into the head of the beetle. Thud. The beetle had tried to parry. It didn''t work. It didn''t help. Sometimes everything is pointless. Bob swallowed. His vision flickered. Was there smoke in the air? Why did he smell smoke? Cold sweat rolled down his forehead. Thud, thud, thud, that noise, that awful noise, it was just his heart, it was just his heart. Calm down Bob, calm down. He put a hand over his eyes and breathed slowly in. What had come over him? Oh he knew. He remembered. He wasn''t that heartless. Those beetles out there weren''t evil. He was the evil one. Another beetle had entered the funnel and Bob dragged back the mud scythe and repositioned it. Would he do it again? Would he kill another innocent beetle? That sound had brought it all back to him. The helpless animals butchered in their homes, the children abandoned to the flames. His work. Snap out of it Bob. The new challenger approached. The beetle was skittish, uncertain, glaring at the gap with the black point. Was it fear? Was the beetle afraid of him? It should be. He was a little afraid of himself. The challenger was close, only two feet away; he had to act now, but he hesitated. Is this the burden of the strong? That animal didn''t stand a chance against him. He held its life in his palm. One sharp squeeze and its life would dissolve into the mist. When you were weak, you didn''t have time to think about these things. You were desperate. You''d do anything and everything. You''d beg on your knees like Sally had, without shame, without hesitation. But the strong man has to look down, has to decide. He decided then, hadn''t he? He''d killed Sally. Was he losing his nerve now? No, it had been different. It had been her or him. Her or George. Life or death. And now? He''d attacked these beetles without provocation, without cause. He attacked them simply to murder them all. To collect specks of golden experience that would let him level up. That wasn''t the same. Couldn''t he get out of here somehow, without massacring them... Maybe he could. Maybe George and he could figure something out. Run off into the grasslands. The beetles weren''t so fast. The two of them were resourceful when they needed to be. Yeah he probably could. He didn''t have to kill them. He could be a better man. Thud. The beetle died on the spot, looking hopelessly at the black space beyond the gap, where a man sat in a chair and watched the beetle''s life puddle away. "I decided, didn''t I? I decided," Bob muttered to himself. "You don''t drink the poison and then complain about the taste. But hell, it goes down bitter doesn''t it? Maybe they make the strong differently and not like little old Bob." George stirred and came over to lie his head on Bob''s lap. Bob stroked the dog''s head. He loved that dog smell. It was so familiar and comforting. It brought back a sweet mixture of memories, lying on the floor together or walking through the town or George sneaking into Bob''s bed. He wasn''t alone. And he didn''t want strength for himself. He needed it for others. He sighed out a long breath and readied the guillotine for the next poor soul brave enough to march into this funnel of death. Chapter 65 - Test, Test, Magic It''s hard to keep the tension up when you''re basically doing the same thing over and over. The human mind is the master automator. Why code out a new solution to the same problem? Don''t Repeat Yourself. In short, Bob was getting bored. Six challengers had come in and six challengers had been met full in the face with a signature mud-stomp. The bodies were starting to pile up and get in the way of new challengers. After enough time, they''d probably need a truce so the beetles could collect up and clear out their dead. "How many beetles are still out there?" Bob grumbled to himself. At least a hundred, potentially hundreds. It''s hard to judge numbers accurately beyond a certain point. The brain stops trying and decides the problem isn''t worth solving. Bob was going to be here for a long time, certainly the rest of the evening and maybe all through the night and into the next day. He needed something to motivate him. Thank god this wasn''t real life, but the game of life as presented by the system. Might as well pull up his status. Seeing experience gains in real time was exactly what would turn the repetitive grind into a progress marathon. However, he was nominally in combat here. The only way he could mess things up would be to get overly distracted and let a beetle get the jump on him. Exploring stat gains or trawling through his several notifications was a shortcut to that very outcome. Everybody likes to think he''s better at a thing than he actually is. But Bob knew he was a terrible multitasker. Easily distracted, easily absorbed, a master of forgetting exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. And was there ever a rabbit hole deeper than learning you had a new achievement or that your strength had suddenly hit above-average, etc... etc... Best to stick with the summary.
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 8 (59%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,876,100 credits
Look at that boys. Look at that. Bob was level eight. He''d shot up two and half levels and it had only cost the beetles their whole civilization. Talk about a sweet deal. He kept his eyes on the level percentage as the next challenger sauntered through the opening. The courage of these animals is just unbelievable. What kind of selfish misconception lets you imagine you''ll fare any differently from the six earlier challengers? The mistaken kind obviously. "Mud stomp!" Thud. The beetle dropped to the ground. Bob looked to his status.
Level: 8 (59%)
"What? No experience gain. You''re joking. That is unbelievable. That beetle was a level four. Don''t tell me I''ve set up this whole experience farm and it''s all for nothing? I couldn''t take that. I''m supposed to sit here and kill these innocent creatures for hours and hours and I won''t even get any experience. Is there a cap on how much experience you can get from a single monster species? Or is the level disparity just too great? " "Mud stomp!" Thud. Another one bites the dust. "Level: 8 (59%)" No change. That rules out half-percentage experience gains and rounding errors. Bob was fuming. "When I get my hands on you (completely immaterial and omnipresent) system, I''ll, I''ll..." He made a series of threatening hand gestures that nobody saw, but which offered vast scope for interpretation. He stopped himself after thirty seconds and started mumbling into his beard fluff, "something doesn''t add up; something smells fishy." He''d had a piece of fish and chips stuck to his chin this whole time. How embarrassing. He picked it off and threw it to the dog. The sense of fishiness remained. You see, he''d never properly investigated experience division and assignment. Usually the answer was just kill more things, but 0% + 0% + 0% + 0% on and on and on was still a grand total of 0%. He could wipe the beetles off the face of the earth and he wouldn''t be able to squeeze a single level out of their sea of corpses. This was a problem beyond caveman Bob. He''d have to call in the big guns, the scientific crowd. Now where had he put his MQA hat? There it was. On the old noggin there Bob. Here we go: Ahem, exhibit number one: the Case of the Winged Caterpillars (Raupenflieger Diaries). Bob had shamelessly slaughtered countless Raupenfliegers. He did so unthinkingly in the way you might slap down a mosquito. Indeed, it so happened that he had killed a level one Raupenflieger while enjoying his pre-siege meal, and it had just so happened that he had had his status summary open at the time (he''d been fretting about shipping costs and lamenting the slow decline of his account balance). And, here it comes, he''d observed a 1% experience bonus. He remembered the fact distinctly, because he had been distinctly annoyed at just how little experience the creature gave him.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. In summary, killing a level one Raupenflieger at level six provided a single percent of experience. Bob had already killed dozens of Rapuenflieger at that point, so he should have long since hit any monster experience cap. And the level disparity was even greater than with the beetle duelists. That seemed to shoot down both his working theories. The problem demanded further investigation. He''d have to seek out root causes. Might as well begin at the beginning. How did the system divvy up experience gains? Badly, in Bob''s humble opinion, but that wasn''t really the question. There was one curious point Bob had noticed during his adventures, namely the system refused to divide experience among party members. Whoever dealt the death blow got the experience; contributions, assists, teamwork be damned. Credit for the system was a binary operation. Either you killed the thing or you didn''t. It was a little like those first person shooters, whoever shaved off the final health point got the whole prize. So the next question was: how did the system determine who had killed a monster? In a first person shooter every bullet, grenade, knife was linked to its owner. When a player died, the program could just check which object had depleted the final health point, look up its owner and increment their kill count. The system must have some similar way of determining ownership. Let us reflect back on our experiences and see if we can''t puzzle out any likely hypotheses. We''ll take in on trust that murdering a creature with your own hands, strangling it or beating it to a pulp would count as you "killing" the creature. Mostly Bob just didn''t want to have to test that point. He was already evil enough. That brings us to exhibit number one, the Case of the Winged Caterpillars. The exhibit was relevant because Bob had not killed the Raupenfliegers directly. No, Bob had, whenever possible, never even touched the insects. Instead he''d delegated all such dirty work to his squasher-in-chief, Harry Mud. And yet, note, he''d still gotten experience each and every time. In other words, killing a monster via a companion object counted as killing the monster yourself. Now on to exhibit number two: the Great Mud Wave (On a Rainy Night). The mighty Bob had stood on the hillside and rained down a dark sea of death on his enemies. He''d brought down a mudslide on top of the swarm of worm-snakes and the system had recognized his achievements. What had killed the creatures? Well either they''d been killed in the initial impact or they''re suffocated under the weight of the mud. The common denominator was mud. And not just any mud, mud Bob had manipulated, which was to say mud he had infused with his own mana. Aha, we seem to be on the right track. After all, Bob controlled Harry in the same way. There was some invisible connection that allowed him to affect Harry at a distance, but fundamentally Bob provided the mana for Harry to move and act. So if the final instrument of death was tied to your mana, the system seems to credit you as the killer. But, ladies and gentlemen, the plot thickens. I present to you exhibit number three. Exhibit number three: the Monster of the Mud Labyrinth (Dancing with the Beetles). Bob had bravely faced down a numerically superior force of beetle elites on the mud plains. He had dispatched them with a cunning tool of composite structure. With Harry Mud in the role of shaft and the system knife playing the blade, I give you the mud-scythe. Notice that the damage dealing component had not been the mana-infused cloak, but the knife. And yet going by his jump to level eight, Bob had been receiving experience. Interesting. Bob wanted to say that since he''d been manipulating the knife with his mud cloak, which was mana-linked to himself, he''d still gotten the credit. But he was manipulating the beetle horn in exactly the same way and he was not getting experience. Maybe the problem was organic vs inorganic substance. The beetle horn had once belonged to a living beetle. That beetle presumably had its own mana. What was the answer? In times like this we can only fall back on the motto of the Noble Society of MQA: test, test, magic. Now there were no sharp stones in their little bunker, but that wasn''t to say there were no stones. Bob dispatched the waiting challenger with a whispered mud-stomp and set about preparing a new weapon. Before we get into this, Bob wants to remind all viewers that the following experiment was done with no ill-will, with the best intentions and in the name of science. Because when the next challenger wandered into the funnel antechamber, navigated past the bodies of its companions and got within Bob''s striking range, a quick, dignified death did not await it there. Smack! A fist sized stone manipulated by Harry Mud laid into the poor beetle. The stone was blunt and the beetle''s carapace was tougher than it looked. It wasn''t like the movies where somebody trips, hits their head on a stone and dies instantly. No, it was more like the ancient biblical practice of stoning, where the whole community gathers together to pelt a poor sod to death with pebbles. The affair took minutes. Bob was just lucky that the beetle had no way to actively resist him and could only lie there until it had been pestle-and-mortared to the ground. In the end, thank the system, it did finally die. And Bob gasping for breath (he''d been sitting down the whole time) checked his level percentage: "Level: 8 (59%)" . Now that certainly violated his hypothesis. Bob was secretly a little glad. He didn''t particularly enjoy the mud hammer and he was happy he wouldn''t have to repeat the affair. So what made the knife different from a stone or the beetle''s horn? Bob scratched his head. He scratched his beard. He scratched his armpits. The answer eluded him. There was no discernible distinction that he could make out. The next best thing to knowing an answer is knowing where you might be able to find it. It was the system knife, wasn''t it? You''d think it would be listed on the system store, wouldn''t it? And said store might provide a description? Don''t mind if I do. Chapter 66 - The Tool Maker You''d think the system knife would be listed on the system store, wouldn''t it? Well you''d be wrong. The system knife was not sold on the system store. Idiot, what could possibly have given you that idea? Bob trawled through the interface, trying numerous search terms: "system knife", "initiation knife", "beginner''s knife", "boar knife", "trash knife", "knife knife", "blade with handle." He was open-minded about categorization, weapons, camping, cooking, collectibles. No cigar. Who''d have guessed, the system didn''t sell its signature knife in its signature shop. That made the knife and its experience-sharing property initiation exclusive. The only way to get your hands on a system knife was to survive the initiation and pigheadedly carry the knife through all four challenges. That or kill someone who''d done the above. Bob had said a lot of mean things about the system knife, but the weapon might just turn out to be a good deal rarer and more valuable than he''d originally imagined. He''d have to remember to track it down later. Wait a moment, if the system knife was secretly valuable, mightn''t there not have been other valuable objects hidden through the initiation? Objects he had overlooked, dismissed as unimportant... He remembered a rusted-through watering-can that he''d thrown away as worthless junk. What if it was a powerful weapon? Or what if that rusty iron was actually a secret, rare ingredient, like some living red metal, that could be used to craft unique, health-stealing items? What if it should turn up in the hands of his enemies as a wondrous divine artifact? Death by watering-can... Ahem, ahem. Right, the question at hand, why did death by system knife give experience? Bob had not found what he was looking for on the system shop and yet, at the same time, he had found exactly what he was looking for. Bob couldn''t buy any weapons, both because of his in-combat status and rank restrictions, but he was allowed to browse. Once he''d given up looking for the exact system knife and broadened his focus a little, he''d quickly sniffed out the magical "experience-sharing property". In fact, he was an idiot. He''d long ago encountered the answer to his question. It''s never just what you see, but what you fail to see. He scanned through an familiar entry:
Glock 17 Gen5 9mm Luger Semi-Automatic Pistol (Mana Signed) Quality: Common The Glock 17 Gen5 9mm Luger Semi-Automatic Pistol is a staple in the Glock family, renowned for its reliability, durability, and performance. This semi-automatic handgun is designed for professionals, enthusiasts, and self-defense with its superior ergonomics, unmatched accuracy, robustness, and high capacity. Bullets fired from the handgun are automatically infused with the mana signature of the wielder.
See, it was right there in the description. Yes it was buried at the very bottom of a largely meaningless description, a place most readers would never reach, but the diligent reader is rewarded for his or her efforts: "Bullets fired from the handgun are automatically infused with the mana signature of the wielder." That''s what the "Mana Signed" tag must mean. The weapon is capable of absorbing a little of your mana so that when you kill something, the death blow gets associated with you and the system can dispense appropriate experience. The system knife was mana signed. The beetle horn and random stone were not. Bob had discovered another grand law. How many was that? Throwing in the grand axiom, five grand laws in less than a week. That had to be a record somewhere. Newton had only gotten three. One of these days, someone would recognize Bob''s brilliance and start a glorious tradition of building Bob statues. He sure hoped they''d follow the classical model of depicting him how he ought to look and not how he actually looked. No reason to disappoint future generations of fans. "Now where was I, ah yes, I present the System''s Law of Responsibility. The actor whose mana is associated with the death blow is recognized as responsible for a kill. Or more concisely, if you don''t sign it, the system won''t give you squat." Now when you stop and think about it, that law had rather far-reaching implications. For example¡ªhold on a sec, one sec, be right back, "mud-stomp," thud, death, okay, we''re back. For example, there was a little mystery that had been niggling at the back of Bob''s mind for a while now: why was humanity progressing so damn slowly? Yes, of course, the "monsters" were scary and frighteningly powerful when compared with the house cats and foxes of suburban wildlife. But we''re humans. We''ve been fighting wars for millennium. We''ve been developing weapons for millennium. We''ve killed more living creatures, ourselves and others, than any other species on the planet. We ought to be dominating these monsters.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. A thought experiment to illustrate the point: post-initiation survivors were returned to their origin room (though the room itself might have been transported elsewhere). Now, somewhere, in our vast globe, there must have been a soldier sitting in a tank, just when the initiation struck, probably with a handgun strapped to his hip. The soldier would nail down the boar. Brute-force the escape room (bloody trick wall). Murder any enemies in "hunted or hunter." And hell he could just rob some other unfortunate player of their chips in the casino. Easy-peasy. He''d pop out of the initiation and bam he was sitting in his tank. To a trained professional, armed to the teeth and operating a working tank, these little beetles and grass crocodiles, I mean, come on? Who are you kidding, it would be a massacre. And yet three whole days had gone by and no one had reached level 10? I refer you to the System''s Law of Responsibility. The pistol and tank would still work. They''d be just as effective at dealing out death and destruction. However, however, you wouldn''t get a lick of experience. You could kill and kill and kill and all the same you''d die at level 1. In short, any weapon that wasn''t "mana-signed" would be worthless for leveling up. The system''s arbitrary ban on weapons sales made a bit more sense now. Old weapons were useless for leveling and new weapons were banned. The playing field was significantly more level than Bob had imagined. Progress could only come by killing monsters with your own system-given powers. The discovery also settled another issue that had been bothering Bob: why George wasn''t level twenty by now. Sure Bob had killed beetles left and right, but the fire that George had started... Hundreds of beetles must have died to the flames. Bob looked guiltily down at his feet, "sorry guys; you might all have died in vain." Naturally George''s direct fire breath was mana-linked to the dog, but the secondary fires indirectly caused by the heat and energy? Probably not. They were just natural phenomena and the dog wasn''t credited with any resultant deaths. Enough abstract speculation Bob; why don''t you turn your attention to the problem at hand? Once humanity discovers a law, it usually doesn''t take long for humanity to figure out a loophole to ignore or sidestep it. Bob didn''t have the mana-signed system knife. So what? He had Harry, didn''t he? Harry wasn''t just a tool. He was an omni-tool. No, no, Harry was a maker of tools, the tool maker. He could take on any form and blur along the liquid-solid spectrum. Give him a blade and he could create a scythe. Give him a stone, and he would make a hammer. "Harry, I have work for you," Bob beckoned to his cloak. The bodies had really started collecting and it was taking longer and longer for the new challenger to navigate the tunnel and get into firing range. Not to mention for the beetles outside to figure out whether or not the previous challenger was dead or not. Harry and Bob used that time to craft a new weapon. We have the technology. We can make a new weapon, better than all that came before. Better, stronger, faster. Why bother with a handle when Bob manipulated Harry via his mind? They needed to think outside of the box. A weapon unbounded by the human form, by the need to grip and swing, by the limitations of mortal combat. Harry condensed into a floating soap. Bob picked up the beetle horn and dipped it inside the chocolaty substance. When he pulled it out, the horn was coated with the thinnest layer of mud, only a half-millimeter, like a brown sheen. Bob held up the horn and squinted at the point; he nodded to himself and started slowly hardening the mud, methodically syphoning away its liquid component. He stopped. Yes, he muttered to himself; Harry had turned sludge-like, with the suppleness of a liquid and the stickiness of a solid. He balanced the weapon, holding it out in front of him. "Yes, good," he nodded his head and pulled away his hand: the weapon floated there. Nope, I''m pulling your leg; the weapon clattered to the ground. Gravity to Bob. Gravity to Bob. Well, that was embarrassing. Bob had actually been trying to hover the horn via the thin layer of mud surrounding it. Experiment failed. So, the amount of force he could express through the mud was proportional to the amount of mud present... Was there some kind of mana saturation limit? " Earth to Bob." "What is it? I''m thinking right now." "There''s another beetle coming." "Ah, life is a series of distractions." No matter. Harry wrapped himself around the bottom of the horn, gripping tightly and floating the horn up. Bob looked at the weapon and tilted his head. It was kinda ugly. It looked like, well, a floating mud hand holding a horn? Bob couldn''t really think of a good simile. It didn''t look like any weapon he had ever seen. He tweaked the outlines a little bit, making Harry a tad more aerodynamic and easing away any blocky lines. "It''s a... mud dart?" Bob raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. George ignored him and Harry was well a piece of cloth. Silence is the sound of consent. A beetle challenger pushed its way through the bodies and emerged into striking distance. "Mud-dart!" Thud, Harry and the horn javelined into the beetle''s head. The layer of mud blunted the horn a little, reducing the penetrative force, but Bob just compensated by pushing harder. You''d be amazed how many problems can be solved with overwhelming force. Bob checked his status and, drum roll, "Level: 8 (63%)". "Hell yeah," Bob fist-bumped and danced around the little room. "I want to thank you science. Couldn''t have done it without you man," Bob added humbly. Why was Bob rubbing his hands together and looking at the beetle corpses in the funnel with sinister, calculating eyes? "It''s only right when good things come to good people," Bob said greedily with a low chuckle. "George, I think these beetles need a little bit of help. All these bodies, they crowd up the passageway and make it so much harder for our noble beetle-friends to step up and do their part for the good of the earth. Don''t you think? Don''t you agree, George?" George did agree. George was always happy to add to his collection of corpses. "George''s what the range on that backpack thingy of yours." George trotted over to the little gap. He had maybe a meter''s range. If the dog poked his head out of the gap, he could pop away the majority of the dead challengers. In thirty seconds, the funnel was clear and breezy. "Wonderful, wonderful. What''d you say we turn up the acceleration on this beetle conveyor belt?" Chapter 67 - The Experience Factory Bob sat in his chair. He was focused. He was in the zone. He knew what to do. He knew when to do it. George lay at the entrance. George was focused. He was in the zone. He knew what to do. He knew when to do it. The two of them worked in perfect synchronization. The inhale and exhale of the same breath. The right and left hand of the same body. They weren''t a team; they were a machine, a well-oiled, brutally efficient, fear-for-your-jobs-petty-mortals machine. A demonstration: beetle challenger enters funnel. Mud slides beetle to designated spot. Voice from beyond the gap mutters two words, "mud, dart", and then brown spear pitches out of the darkness and buries itself in beetle brains. Beetle dies and, pop, beetle disappears. The new pace had a hypnotic efficiency to it. There''s something oddly mesmerising about a good assembly line. You can''t look away. The challengers, waiting outside, seemed to have been stripped of any ability to think or experience fear. It was that distinctive popping sound. Pop, that single note had acquired an insidious Pavlovian association to it. As soon as the pop rang out, the whole queue of beetles stepped forward in sequence. Their movements were mechanized, bundled into the workings of the grand machine, each of them transformed into mindless cogs in the great experience factory. Bob''s mind was empty. He was without thought. He was without distraction. He had achieved a kind of purity of concentration. It was the deep zen of meditation on the mountains. It was the death of the thinking-self, the perspective-less vision of the sky as it gazes over the whole world. The sequence of required actions was without pause; it was a flow, a dance of movement and images, one melting into the next and beyond and beyond and then repeating and circling. He was sitting at the very edge of consciousness. It was a paradoxical state, a mind-death merged into the purest expression of mindfulness. Was this enlightenment? He''d arrived at this place by stages, by slow degrees of introspection, through many subjective mind-ages all squashed into the progression of cycles. In the beginning, the machine had ground against itself. It would gutter and catch. One cog would drift a fraction of an inch out of place and another would grind past it, spin loose, and the whole mechanism would sputter out. Bob had been slow, his magic awkward and brittle. He was a novice, an apprentice. He focused on the wrong things and ignored the right ones. Bob had needed to picture out every little detail in his mind: the oncoming beetle, its relative size and position, the mud surface, the angle of the mud dart, on and on... For a while, he''d actually gotten worse with each iteration. The memories of earlier actions blurred over what he was currently seeing and distracted him. Sometimes he would straight up miss the beetle. Or his mud conveyor belt would run too fast or too slow and the beetle would be all out of position. But the mind is lazy. It''s a profound truth, but simplicity is a kind of laziness, not to achieve, but to possess. And every rotation of the machine gave Bob another chance to iterate, another chance at feedback and learning. He experimented. What did it matter if he missed? There was always another beetle, always another attempt. It was like he was inside a time-loop, reliving the same fifteen seconds over and over, one endless exercise in deliberate learning, in self-improvement. Why was he imaging the whole scene? Ninety-five percent of it was irrelevant, unchanging. He didn''t need to paint the context, the walls of the funnel, the color of the beetle, the breeze in the air. The mud wasn''t his servant, but his tool, his hands and feet. The mud only needed to understand its own part. He was the brain, the operator. Do you describe the shape of the clouds to your car? No, but even further, do you tell the car where the road is, where to turn, how close the car behind you is? No, no, you don''t, you strip away all context and give only the simplest, relative instructions. Turn front wheels thirty degrees to the left. Increase motor rotation. Activate headlight switch. Bob started simplifying his magical formulas. He condensed down his instructions into simple, atomic movements. He conveyed them in terms relative to the mud''s current position. His actions grew sharper, quicker. The conveyor belt sped up. The experience factory churned. Why was he using his eyes? His eyes were distracting him. His mud couldn''t see, couldn''t parse visual information. There was a translation lag, a mental processing cost as he converted that visual data into mud terms, and there were minor deviations, tiny mistranslations that cost a few millimeters this way or that. Bob closed his eyes. His magic ought to be framed in the language of mud. He started to feel for beetle''s first step into the funnel, instead of looking for it. There, that was the cue: a ripple of energy spreading through the mud as the beetle stepped inside the funnel. He would seize the animal in his mud hand and slide him to the execution block. His precision increased. He handled noise better, when a beetle entered by a slightly different angle or was particularly large or small. The conveyor belt sped up. The experience factory churned. Why was he repeating himself? Weren''t his actions almost identical rotation after rotation? Yes there were the smallest, slightest deviations, one foot to the left, or two inches higher, or a split-second delay as the sound wave propagated down the beetle ranks. But the majority of each action was identical. Why did he have to keep repeating himself to the mud? He should only have to send those final, precise adjustments. Everything else, the basic movements, the mud ought to remember.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Bob tried to prune back his instructions, giving only the first step with the bare minimum context as a cue for the sequence. It didn''t work or only partially... The dumb mud of the funnel floor wouldn''t, couldn''t learn. It did exactly what he sent it, nothing more or less. He couldn''t communicate that the signal was supposed to be a trigger for a specific set of actions. But Harry, Harry was not just dumb mud. The cloak struggled for a few iterations, but he seemed to latch onto the verbal command, "mud dart." After half a dozen more cycles, the cloak needed no explicit instructions, Bob could just say the words and provide minimal context on ending position, and Harry would snap into action. The conveyor belt sped up. The experience factory churned. Yes, yes, Bob was making progress, he was growing. More, more, he needed more beetles, there was so much yet to refine, so many little adjustments, the small things you couldn''t even notice unless you single-mindedly repeated an action over and over. But it wasn''t enough. He was starting to grow tired. Each beetle consumed only a sliver of his mana, but every cycle shaved away a few more mana points and the faster he went the faster his mana depleted. No, he couldn''t stop. He didn''t know if he could get back to this mental place, this room of clarity and insight. He had to be better, more efficient, more creative. Why was he completely resetting the mud dart each time? There was no need. Why pay back gravity each time? He positioned the mud dart like a stake at the front of the tunnel, bracing Harry into the ground and then started to slide the beetles straight into the pike. Yes, good, good, no, it''s not enough, it''s not enough Bob. He was still using too much mana. He wouldn''t last. He''d run out. Why was he transporting a whole column of mud? It was wasteful, inelegant, sub-optimal, and it meant he had to occasionally re-level the funnel floor to prevent an uphill slope forming. Gravity should work for him. He refashioned the passageway so that it formed a gentle downwards slope. When the beetle stepped inside, Bob would nudge the tiniest slice of mud, sliding it down the slope and towards the stake. It was a goldilocks-class problem. Too little and it wasn''t enough to carry the beetle. Too much and he was burning mana. He iterated and iterated, pinpointing the necessary speed, thickness and optimal gradient. His mana output plummeted. Each beetle cost Bob practically nothing. No Bob was actually gaining mana. His natural mana regeneration had overtaken the minuscule outputs and was refilling his reserves. He could keep going. He could keep going. He would go forever. He couldn''t be stopped. The experience factory was churning and churning. A beetle stepped into the funnel, a beetle slid down and impacted the mud dart, pop, a beetle disappeared, a beetle stepped into the funnel, a beetle slide down and impact the mud dart¡ªBob waited. One moment, two moments. Had time frozen? Had he reached some secret space inside the intervals that defined time''s progress? Another moment, another. Where was the pop? Without the pop no new beetle stepped into the room. Without the pop the beetle on the stake didn''t disappear. The pop completed the circle, connecting beginning and end into an undying cycle. Bob looked dreamily down at George. George was crumbled on the ground. The dog seemed to be trying to focus, his head swaying left and right. He looked bone-tired. "George," Bob crouched down, "poor boy, why didn''t you say something?" Bob stroked the dog''s head. "You did good, boy. You fought the good fight. I''m sorry I didn''t notice sooner." There must be some cost associated with storing a body. Of course there was some cost. There''s no such thing as a free lunch. Bob should have paid better attention. The dog hadn''t let out a peep of complaint. He''d put up with the relentless pace until he collapsed at his station. "We''ll just rest a little now." Bob lifted up the dog and carried him over to his bed. The beetles outside were still waiting for the signal to enter. The bunker was silent and still. Bob pulled up his status. Truth be told, he only had a vague idea how long they''d been at the activity and how many beetles he''d killed. Had it been enough?
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 9 (99%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,876,100 credits
So close... But it couldn''t be a coincidence right? Somehow his experience had capped here. The system wouldn''t let him reach level ten just by killing beetles. Was there some kind of advancement quest? He had at least half-a-dozen notification to go through. He pulled up number one:
Congratulations: Level up 6 7 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to strength assigned Minor bonus to dexterity assigned Token bonus to wisdom assigned Minor decrease to vitality assigned
Now number two¡ªwhat was that? The beetles outside had started drumming their horns. Dum, dum, dum. Bob squinted through the gap to try and see what was happening. It was too far and the angle was bad. Bob looked nervously at the sleeping dog. Now was not a good time for the beetles to be unveiling some kind of secret weapon. "Calm down, Bob. Look at these thick mud-brick walls. You''re standing in the greatest fortress ever constructed. A castle for the ages. Armies have washed against your walls like water against the cliffs. But just in case, why don''t you take a peek with your mud sense?" "Good idea." Bob gulped and stepped back from the funnel mouth. There was something big coming. Very big. These were strong walls. Bob tapped the mud-brick. He''d be okay. Something of the confidence had slipped out of his voice. They''d be okay, right, right? The room was plunged into darkness as a giant figure shrouded the entranceway. Harry Mud Dart clattered to the ground. Bob staggered back, eyes widening. Chapter 68 - Small Talk Heavens above. Bob knew that face. He barked out a short laugh, a broken, wretched sound. "Of course, of course, of course, of course. It was so obvious, so bleeding obvious." It was his fault. Yes, not fate, or some malevolent god, not the brilliance of the enemies, but his own foolishness. A hero must be defeated by his own flaw. "I should have known. I ought to have figured it out. A child might have seen it." The signs had all been there. Plain as plain. He looked at the dog. He''d blundered this time. He''d blundered bad. Death was leaning on the edge of his seat and rubbing his hands. On the other side of the funnel, glaring across the corridor, eyes boring into Bob, was... a... beetle. Of course it was a beetle. This was beetle country. Bob hadn''t seen a non-beetle for hours and hours. And yet, it wasn''t just any beetle either. It was a familiar beetle. An old acquaintance, come to pay his respects. A beetle, yes, but not one of those badger-sized, tame and cuddly Kriegsk?fer, who maxed out at level 6. No, if only... At the mouth of the funnel stood the beetles'' older brother, their guardian demon-beetle, a level 9 Panzerk?fer, the size of small lorry, neon green with a pearly white three-foot horn. Hello again. Now that you mention it, look at that familial resemblance. They were peas in a pod. It''s not everyday you see giant, horned beetles wandering around. Yes, now that you mention it, it makes a lot of sense for a giant horned beetle to be living in the giant horned beetle city. The city, Bob had boldy decided to sack, yes. Bully the weak and get bullied by the strong. "God dammit," Bob cursed. "God dammit," Bob repeated for emphasis, "just when things were starting to go my way, a fricking tank-beetle has to waddle up and shit all over my plans." He gesticulated at the outrageous animal, "that monster should be illegal. Look at me. Look at me. I''m a human. I''m five foot ten and weigh about 75 kilos. My power is to splash mud around. Splash, splash, how does the mud feel on your back, cool on a hot afternoon, isn''t it? No, no, you''re most welcome, any time, any time." Bob spat on the ground. "Look at that thing. Look at it. It''s bigger than a house and with a horn that would glide through plate-mail. How am I supposed to fight that, period? And trapped in an exitless bunker with a comatose dog. Dammit, dammit, dammit all." The Panzerk?fer, ignoring all rules of decorum, decided to jump the challenger queue and rashly push its way into the funnel. The operation was complicated by the fact that the beetle was wider and taller than the funnel entrance. But the old boy decided he wasn''t going to worry about these minor trifles. Bob''s bunker was held together by nothing more than gravity. The walls were heavy. Plenty heavy enough to prevent a badger-sized animal from knocking it over. The tank-beetle was another story. First the roof popped up as the beetle slide its head underneath. Next the funnel walls started to skid backwards. The skidding turned into toppling. The toppling into falling. Alas, alas, for the hero of the siege, for the majesty funnel, you who served your master admirably. Now, it''s a crying shame, but if you recall the design of the structure, you''ll remember that the funnel walls were nestled into two vertical walls that formed the sides of Bob''s little chamber. The arrangement meant that when the funnel walls started to fall, they fell straight into the walls of the room, starting those walls on their own swift and loud descent to the ground. I mean really, who designed this piece of shit? Any idiot knows not to leave a single point of failure. The bunker unfolded like a beautiful orchestrated Christmas present. Bob watched his stronghold crumble down around him with a profound sense of helplessness. Unveiled by the falling walls were lines and lines of beetles. There was no escape. Bob started to back away from the tank-beetle that had savaged his fortress. He backed right up into the back wall. Trapped. The back wall had miraculously survived, since both side walls had fallen outwards. It was probably for the best, because otherwise the ceiling would have crashed down on top of them. Right now said ceiling was balanced precariously between the back wall and the tank-beetle''s head. "Bob, what do you say to a plan? Don''t you think it''d be good to have a plan? You know a strategy. Some smart way to get out of this mess." "Really Bob, really? You don''t say. A plan, Jesus, wow, a plan, you know the idea had never crossed my mind. That''s a great idea."If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The tank-beetle took a step forward. "The beetle''s coming Bob." "I can see that." "Why don''t you do something about it Bob?" "Shut up!" "Very well," Bob stuttered; ahem, ahem, he coughed into his hand. "Good. Thank you. You''re welcome. Sorry. What was I saying?" Bob snapped his fingers. "So I take it you''ve finally accepted my challenge. Splendid. I don''t know why things had to get so unfriendly, it was the very first thing I said. Ask them," Bob motioned offhandedly to the surrounding beetles, "ask any one of them, what did I say, what was the very first thing I said, ''bring out your champion.'' Word for word. From the very beginning, all I wanted was an honorable duel. Cross my heart." Bob had found his voice; his delivery grew more impassioned; it took on a keener edge; it wore the colors of justified outrage. "An honorable duel I say. Honorable! And what did your companions do? The shame." He gestured an accusatory finger at the beetles and hissed. "Just think, noble sir. They ambushed me and my knight. Twenty against two, sir. Can you believe it? An absolute disgrace. We defended ourselves as any honest man might. Can we really be held culpable for striking back, when we, humble, peaceful, travelers were shamelessly waylaid at the gates of your city." Could the tank-beetle understand a word he was saying? The beetles were an intelligent, city-building species of insects, so probably not. Did beetles even have ears? They''d communicated by resonating their horns so most likely yes. Bob side-eyed the interloper. Hello there, somehow, the tank-beetle seemed to be getting the message. System shenanigans? Bilingual beetles? Was Bob speaking in tongues? Hell it hardly matters. The beetle was listening. That was enough. Bob had cast the line and he''d got a nibble. Now he just had to pull in his fish. "Of course, I know very well that your subordinates acted without your knowledge and consent. A noble sir, like as yourself, could never have condoned such abominable behavior. And I do not hold you responsible for the mistakes of your lessers. But now that we have finally met face-to-face, man-to...-beetle, may we not still have friendly and noble dealings. I have come here for a battle of champions. A tradition sacred among warriors. I recognize a master of the blade when I see one standing before me. It would be my great honor to engage you in single-combat." Bob stepped forward and gave a courtly bow to the creature. The tank-beetle seemed to consider for a moment. It was a long, long moment from Bob''s perspective. And then it decided. With a causal flick of its neck, it threw off the ceiling wall and... stepped forward. "Shit, shit, why didn''t a modern education include rhetoric," Bob muttered to himself, gulping and wondering if he should even bother praying to the system. The tank-beetle nodded its head. "What?" Bob let out a startled ejaculation. He cleared his throat. "Very good sir. Very good. I knew I could count on your chivalry. Let us make the circle. And please, do warn your companions not to interfere. Let us have a clean and honorable duel. I will give my companion likewise instructions." The massive beetle unfolded its enormous wings and buzzed them at the assembled insects. Somehow that communicated the situation unambiguously, because all the beetles backed up ten paces and rearranged themselves into a perfect circle, centered on Bob and the monster. Bob picked up George, bed and all, and carried him to the far side of the circle, in the direction closest to the grassland. He laid the dog down and whispered into his ear: "George, the second you can manage it. I need you to jump up and flamethrower down the fat one. You got that?" The dog nodded weakly. So they had a plan, half a plan, a quarter-plan. They were quite a few details missing. How was Bob going to survive going head-to-head with the beetle demon? What if George missed his attack? What if George landed his attack but the beetle tanked it? What would the remaining beetles do when they saw Bob shamelessly violate the rules of single-combat? What would Bob eat for the dinner tonight? Bob walked back to the center of the circle. He walked slowly, like maddeningly slowly. If he could just stall for time. What could he say that would interest a mini-van sized beetle? What were beetles interested in? Grass? Nightlife? Music? Horn enlargement? No, that would probably be insensitive. Something more benign. Small talk. I''ve got it. What about the weather? Everybody loves talking about the weather. Bob spoke up, "I hear it''s going to rain tonight." No answer, so Bob continued, tell them about yourself and they''ll tell you about themselves. "I kinda like the rain. It''s soothing to sit indoors by a warm fire, and just listen to the rain falling down, don''t you think?" Bob facepalmed. What the fuck was he saying? He''d literally burned down their whole city. Yes, why don''t you poor beetles go and sit in the ashes of your former homes and weep as the rain beats down on you. Nope, nope, he needed to shut up. Small talk was a bloody mine-field. There''s a reason he had a dog and not a girlfriend. "So how do you want to start this thing? I think a countdown is pretty traditional. Everybody loves a good countdown. What about from 100? 3 is just not enough time to get yourself gunned up, you know. Should I do it? I''ll do it. You want me to? Okay, okay, here we go: one hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight¡ª" The beetle rose up on its hind-legs, clattered its mandibles together and beat its wings. The gust of air knocked Bob clean off his feet and backwards into the mud. The gallery started to drum their horns. That war music was really unsettling. It made the whole thing seem like a hunt. "Was that ''go''? Can we try again? I wasn''t quite ready." Bob rolled over as a white horn stabbed into the space where he''d been lying. "Really I wasn''t ready. I need just a bit more time. A minute. Thirty seconds." Bob jumped as the horn swept towards his legs. He shook his head and asked himself for the thousandth time: where have all the reasonable people gone? Chapter 69 - Art I''ve begun to think there aren''t any reasonable people in the world. It''s a nice idea like common sense and rational decision-making. But they''re all dreams, ideals created by a hopeful soul. They exist only in stories, like unicorns and dragons. I tell you, you could spend your whole life looking for a reasonable person and never find one. Bob wasn''t reasonable. The tank-beetle wasn''t reasonable. George wasn''t reasonable. The system wasn''t reasonable. And this godforsaken situation was just about as far from reasonable as you could get. If only my mother could see me now... Bob mused, as he dodged horn attack after horn attack while the crowd of beetles booed and heckled. Those level increases must really have bumped up his dexterity, because pre-system Bob would have been pancaked long ago. He leaped, he dived, he pirroethed, he sidestepped, he back-stepped, he foxtrotted, he waltzed. Something about the war music really brought out the dance in him. The crowd was bloody biased. He was putting on a show here. They should be throwing flowers at his feet. They weren''t and, frankly speaking, the tank-beetle was just playing with him. The animal was taking the opportunity to show off its quite superior fencing abilities. You''d think it would be more difficult to manipulate a point three-foot away from your head, but the tank-beetle made it look easy. It wove complicated figures around Bob, little pictures of the sword, even finding the time to add dramatic flourishes. It was beautiful, mesmerizing sword-work. And the beetle knew full well the value of its craft. Sometimes it would pause for a moment after a particularly impressive sequence, giving the gallery just enough time to appreciate the effect. Wouldn''t it be marvelous to see two of these creatures fight each other, Bob thought to himself as he ducked a particularly vicious side-swipe. That would be the pinnacle of sword-craft. That would be... art. Yes, that was the word: Art! Bob really hadn''t given these beetles enough credits. Nobody could mistake the sword master''s movements for mere instinctual wavings of the horn. It practiced a sword style; there was a coherence to the strokes, an animating aesthetic to the motions. In another life, Bob would have thrown himself at the master''s feet and begged to be made a disciple. In real life, he just did his best not to get beheaded. The more Bob saw, the more he realized that the duel was not a one-off for the creatures. The tank-beetle was too practiced, the spectators too enthused, the circle too pristinely formed. The animals must have a long-standing custom of dueling each other. I christen you: giant horned dueling beetles, the Gladiatus Rhinocerix. It was the only way to explain why the master had instantly understood and accepted Bob''s challenge. As well as the single-gesture instruction required to quell and form up the citizenry of a sacked city. A duel, Bob mused, a real duel, the pinnacle of combat tropes, the simplest and most compelling of situations. How had Bob described it: ''a tradition sacred among warriors.'' That was a good line. He wondered where he''d borrowed that from. Bob was fighting a duel. The whole thing was starting to make him feel a shade guilty. When the beetle''s leader had signaled for a duel, the beetles had put aside all bitterness and anger to obey the mandates of their sacred tradition. Bob, on the other hand, had gone into the duel with every intention of cheating at the first opportunity. Which of them was the civilized one here? And yet now Bob was growing remorseful. Art has a power to move men''s souls. Just look at the tank-beetle''s deliberate footwork, that shuffling sidestep, the subtle lunge, its passe avant, its passe arriere. What heart could strip the world of these beautiful things? Was there no peaceful resolution to their conflict? No way they could leave this place as bosom companions and not bitter enemies. He would not kill such a noble animal. Imagine for a moment, yes suspend your disbelief, if Bob could somehow tame the animal, or no, that was an offensive phrase towards a creature of intelligence, befriend the animal, and ride into battle on its back: Bob and the beetle. Bob the beetle rider. It had a ring to it. The legends they could make. Slash, his step back had been delayed a fraction of a second by idle fantasies, and the beetle horn scarred a line across his chest. The flash of pain helped Bob remember that the monster in front of him was trying to kill him. Still, a man''s only as strong as his dreams. Bob gritted his teeth. The beetles were a strict martial community. He''d seen them deny shelter to fugitive beetles. Trying to back out of a duel would be interpreted as a sign of weakness and disrespect. The master would execute him on the spot. No, his only chance was to win the duel fair and square, spare the life of the beetle and then take the beetle on as his vassal. Fat chance that was. Not only was Bob highly pessimistic he could win the duel on his lonesome, he was highly pessimistic that he could win the duel by cheating. George''s fire breath was of limited range and required a cast time. How on earth would George manage to land an attack on this beetle sword-sage, with its devastating, pinpoint strikes at distance? Not to mention, the second George made an aggressive move, the swarm of (rightfully) angry spectators would trample them both down. That left some kind of trap, but traps are all preparations and understatement. You can''t prepare a stage, while a monster-truck is beating down on you.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Bob''s move-set was limited at best. He was the ambush predator. A straight-up duel was a job for honorable knights, not the delinquent, hoody-wearing mud magician. Mudfall was out of the question. He doubted all his mana would be enough to bury this monstrosity, and thinking he could keep it buried was nothing short of delusional. At the same time, Harry and the horn were lying abandoned near the bunker ruins. Bob had debated trying to pick the mud dart up during his monologue, but he''d been afraid any kind of aggressive move might trigger an instant breakdown in negotiations. After all, brandishing the horn of a beetle he''d killed at another beetle, potentially a relation or friend of the first beetle, was unlikely to earn him any good will. He figured he''d just retrieve it when hostilities open. He''d figured badly. The beetle''s first foray had immediately pushed him well away from the centre of the circle, far out of the bunker''s orbit. That trend had continued and he was slowly being backed up toward the edge of the ring, at which point, no doubt, he''d find himself with no room to maneuver and a beetle horn to the gut. Bob would have to try something. Time to see just how far Bob had come. You can''t score if you''re always playing defense. Bob was a mage. He was a wielder of the arcane forces, of the element of wetted earth, the mud wizard. Plan number one: Bob would throw off the beetle''s timing by disrupting his footwork and then rush for the mud-dart. Isn''t that what you''re supposed to do when fighting spearmen, close the distance beyond the weapon''s effective range? A theoretically perfect plan. The second best kind of perfection. Ok, here goes nothing. Bob extended his awareness into the mud around his feet. He spun left to avoid a stab, and then right to avoid the follow up, and then left again. Dizzy work this. Focus. Focus. He felt around for the mud under the beetle''s feet; there, he had it. Concentrate Bob. Just cooking up some magic here (i.e. conceiving in detail exactly what the mud had to do). Come on, come on. A little bit more. Splat! Bob was clattered down into the ground as he took the side of the horn to his stomach. He was winded, nauseous, the sky was full of beautiful stars, look how pretty they are. Thankfully he still managed to roll away from a series of pointed stabs, scramble to his feet and back away before the beetle could finish him off. Bob had used magic loads of time. He was a mage. He''d trained his mind to quickly and accurately construct magical directives. This was, however, the first time he''d attempted to do so while ducking and diving around for his life. It was a tad more difficult than he''d imagined. No, it was bloody damn impossible. To make matters worse, the beetle seemed to know it was fighting a mage. That''s why it had shifted tactics to the faster, but non-lethal horn bash, when it saw Bob trying to cast a spell. "I''ve said it before and I''ll say it again. My powers are absolute horseshit." Bob spat out onto the ground. The spit came out red and sticky. Nothing like a little bit of internal bleeding. "Ok, Bob, magic is off the table. What other options do you have?" "Zero. I have zero options. I''m a magician. My whole power set is magic." "Ah, rather unfortunate." "You can say that again. " "Bob." "What?" "I have an idea, but I don''t think you''re going to like it." "Then I don''t want to hear it." "But Bob..." "Fine, fine, tell me your idea." "..." "I don''t like it." "I said you weren''t going to like it." "It''s an awful idea. How can you call that a plan? Let me repeat back your words to you: ''the beetle won''t be able to hurt you if you are clinging onto the beetle''s horn.'' Do you hear yourself? That''s bat-crazy." "No, it''s smart. Think about it." "I have. It''s bat-crazy." "Think about it properly. It''s genius. The area''s all mud right? That means the beetle won''t be able to hurt you by smashing you into the ground. You can just cushion any impacts with your mud magic. And you''ll be stationary, so you''ll actually be able to cast spells." "What if he throws me off?" "Well then you''ll be back where you started. No harm done. And don''t you have average strength? Look how smooth a touch of dexterity made you. Word of advice: try to get as close as to the beetle head as you can. That''ll give it less leverage." "Thank you Bob. Great advice. I can''t believe we are actually going to do this." "I told you it was a great idea." "I hate you Bob." "I love you too Bob." Well no point faffing around. Bob was at the far edge of the circle and it wasn''t like he had a better plan. He crouched down, hand at the ready, keeping both eyes on the tank-beetle as it stepped cautiously towards him. There. A lighting strike from the beetle aimed straight for the neck. Bob flicked his head to the side, twisted his body around and grabbed the horn with his good, left hand. He flipped himself up, hooking both legs around the horn. "Did you see that? That was some kung-fu shit. I''ve really got to believe in myself a bit more. Ok Bob, here I am. What''s next? What do I do now?" "___" "What? Why are you looking at me? This was your plan wasn''t it." "Yeah and it worked". "Well what''s the follow-up?" "What follow up?" Bob groaned to himself. "I knew it. I knew I didn''t like the plan. You''ve left me stranded, clinging for dear life on the horn of a giant beetle." "I don''t know, cast some magic." "You bloody..." The beetle wasn''t happy. The animal''s displeasure expressed itself in some very choice attempts to throw Bob away from the horn. Bob hugged the firm stick as hard as could. The world was spinning around him. Reach out to the mud Bob. Yeah, no; whatever his internal counselors liked to imagine, this was not stationary. The prospect of raining down spells on the monster sitting securely on its horn was laughable. Only a complete idiot could have come up with that plan. No. Responsibility has to lie with the idiot who agreed to it. The beetle threw its head up; Bob''s grip loosened. He remembered he only had one good hand. And then the beetle slashed the horn down and to the side. Bob''s grip slipped away. He was flying. He was flying through the air. He was free. Smack! Groan. What are the chances... Chapter 70 - Intellectual Superior Bob had been slingshotted off the beetle''s horn, sailed through the air and impacted, not soft mud, but the hardened surface of the bunker wall (so much for his grand plan). He''d pounded smack into the middle of the last standing wall, which promptly toppled over. The wall jarred against his back as it landed diagonally on top of one of the fallen side walls. Bob moaned to himself. What are the chances... The wall had fallen. The mud curtain crumbled down. It was the end of an empire. The end of an age. The mud bunker that had once held back the mighty arm of the beetle army was but scattered ruins on the plains of death. Bob looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful sky. The sky is always beautiful. He should move. He had to move. It''s man''s duty to struggle. He would move. Just one more breath of the divine sky. It took the beetle a few moments to realize it had gotten rid of its pest and then a few more to ascertain where said pest had gone. It finally located Bob, lying on the mud-brick wall, staring at the heavens. It was a beautiful sky. If only the beetle would look up, just for a moment, and see the sky''s imperial beauty, surely they''d be reconciled, surely they could yet be friends, Bob and the beetle. The beetle, alas, never looked up. Instead it sprung towards Bob, leaping the distance with a powerful beat of its wings, advancing horn first. It was the death blow, the coup de grace. No more messing around. It would end the fight here and now. Time seemed to slow as Bob watched the beetle come at him. Bob was back to the wall; he wasn''t touching the mud on the ground, so he was powerless to manipulate it. Harry was somewhere nearby, but Bob simply didn''t have the time. You can''t conjure up a magical directive with the snap of your fingers. There''s a reason mages stand way back from the front lines. "So roll away Bob, just roll away!" "You think the master swordsman can''t adjust its strike mid-flight?" "Don''t tell me you''re just going to lie here." "It''s such a beautiful sky isn''t it?" Bob looked up. He was remembering something. He chuckled to himself and whispered into the evening. Two words. Two familiar words. With a broken grin on his face. The tank-beetle sensed the blow just before it landed. It twisted, trying to bring its blade around, but too slow. The beetle felt something dig into its side. The point penetrated; it slid deeper, then caught. What was it? A brown, horn-shaped object... It had appeared mysteriously and invisibly out of the ground. An annoyance, but no more than an annoyance. The tank-beetle could be stuffed full of these little pins and fight on undeterred. The beetle recovered immediately, turning back to its adversary, only to see him roll off the wall, splat down into the mud face-first and then sink under. The beetle exploded at the enemy, the horn stabbed deep into the ground, then again, then again, then to the right, then to the left. Was it over? Was the enemy dead? The mud under one of the bunker walls shifted slightly. There! The beetle slammed its horn into the wall. The wall would shatter, the horn would plunge straight through and the challenger would die instantly. Except the horn ricocheted off, throwing the tank-beetle back with its momentum. A man may fall and yet endure. Why can''t a wall do the same? Bob was feeling smug and comfortable inside the mud. He was chilling out underneath one of the bunker walls. He''d been in a cold sweat when the beetle had unhesitatingly spiked the wall, but now he was congratulating himself on some first-rate material engineering. They don''t call him the mud mechanic for nothing. "Mud dart", he repeated the fateful words to himself. A hundred repetitions had drilled that cue into the fabric of Harry''s being. It was amazing. It was the point-and-click magic of pre-system gaming. Bob only had to say the phrase, think about direction and distance, and the mud cloak would launch into action. He hated to admit it, but the plan had worked out surprisingly well. Not exactly in the way he''d intended, mind. Why on earth had he been trying to get his hands on Harry when he could control the cloak from a distance? Sometimes in the heat of the moment a man thinks stupid things. The important thing wasn''t the weapon, but the wall. Under the mud, behind the strong, thick wall he was practically invulnerable. Sure the animal had shrugged off his first mud dart, but Bob could be patient when he needed to be. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, Bob had all day and all of tomorrow. Time to go on the offensive. Bob made to pull out the mud dart lodged in the beetle''s side. Harry gave a sharp yank and... the horn didn''t budge. What? Harry rolled up his sleeves and strained against the horn. Not a twitch. Harry put his back into it, he pulled his damnedest, he contested the will of the horn and the horn won. It was jammed fast in tensed-up beetle muscle and didn''t move a jot. Hm... there goes my offensive strategy. If Harry couldn''t budge the horn, then he might as well reunite with his master; Bob called the cloak back to his position.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. In the meantime, the tank-beetle continued to pound its horn into the bunker wall. Each blow seemed to physically hurt the beetle, as the horn was rebounded back into the animal''s skull. Maybe the beetle will kill itself, Bob pondered cheerfully. It''s a lot easier to be cheerful when you''re not standing up or running around. Bob didn''t really have much to do, so he pulled out a health patch from his inner pocket and slapped it lazily onto his torso. Soothing warmth spread around his damaged body. The slash on his stomach cleared up. His bruised ribs and back were swiftly mended. He was feeling good. The tank-beetle backed up a step and then charged forward, battering its horn into the mud brick wall. I''ve seen this before. What do they say: insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The beetle backed up, one, two steps and charged forward again, pinning all of its consideration force on the tip of the horn point. When is the dumb brute going to learn his lesson? The beetle backed up, one, two, three, steps, like distance made a difference, and charged forward. Crack, the wall splintered and the horn penetrated deep into the ground. "Aha, oh no, he got me, I''m skewered, I''m dying, help me. Not!" Nobody gives Bob enough credit. Bob wasn''t stupid. He was smart stupid. He did stupid things in smart ways. Bob had long ago maneuvered himself to a different wall (the old ceiling). What kind of ambush predator remains in an exposed position? The extinct kind. The tank-beetle proceeded to ravage the ground around the broken wall. It was all wasted effort. What to do? What to do? What do the philosophers say, the unexamined life is not worth living. Pop. What was that sound? Bob might have imagined the noise. It was so hard to hear anything over the rowdy crowd and the tank-beetle''s vigorous thrusting, but that sound had a special significance for our hero. It was George''s special sound. Was the dog awake? Bob scouted out towards George''s position. The dog was awake. That meant he''d straight-up ignored Bob''s instructions. Bob didn''t know whether to be happy or annoyed. Either the dog was smart enough to recognize that the situation had changed or he was entering a rebellious phase. Instead of jumping the tank-beetle, the dog had popped something out onto the mud. Bob sucked the object underground and rolled it over to his position. A present from the dog. It was hard to see properly with all the mud, but it was some kind of glass jar. Bob unscrewed the cap and caught a full-on whiff of the pungent stuff. "George, you devilish fox," Bob smiled to himself. He knew exactly what was in the jar. He''d prepared the stuff himself. Really why did he bother thinking up plans at all, when the dog was obviously his intellectual superior. Let''s get this show on the road. Bob slithered through the mud until he was directly under the overlapping walls. The back wall was propped up against the side wall creating a diagonal opening. This is where he''d make his stand. His final stand. After a calming breath, Bob surfaced. The beetle locked on, but hesitated. Its enemy was a trickster, a devious, roundabout fighter. The beetle circled around so that it could face Bob head-on with no obstacles between them. They stood two meters apart, eyeing each other off over the distance. The crowd fell silent. This was the final showdown. A wind rolled through. Bob''s cloak billowed behind him, as he fingered the glass jar at his left hip. The beetle swayed its horn left to right. Bob crouched forward. The beetle tensed, shifting its weight towards its back legs. A cloud rolled over the sun and shadowed the plains below. They both moved at exactly the same moment. The horn missiled forward, straight for Bob''s chest. The jar flew up into the air. The horn was faster. It pierced straight through the cloak. But Bob had stepped away. It was empty cloth. The horn pierced straight through and guttered into the opening between the walls. Bob jumped up, using his own body weight to brace the upper wall. The jar spun through the air. The beetle tried to dodge left, but the horn was caught in the opening. The animal quickly pivoted and began backing away. Too late. The jar smashed over the beetle''s eyes and green pus splattered out. Level 3 Raupenflieger pus, collected at great psychological cost and squeezed by hand into a jar. The beetle shuddered. The acid melted straight through its carapace, burning and hissing, ravaging the animal''s face and eyes. The beetle jerked violently at the trapped horn. The horn snapped and the whole wall with Bob on top of it was thrown into the air. Bob was flying. His scrambling hands contacted something in the air and he caught hold. Bob was falling. He parabolaed down and cratered into the beetle''s back. Thud. Bob made out a horn fragment in his left hand. The beetle''s horn fragment. Somehow he''d caught it in the air and stabbed it into the beetle''s back as he fell. A happy coincidence. He held on to it for dear life as the beetle bucked and howled while the acid ate away at its face. Harry quickly secured his master, tying Bob to the peg and pulling him fast. After five seconds Bob was feeling pretty anchored. After ten seconds, Bob felt confident enough to take his hand off and wave it in the air: "George, George, look at me. I''m riding the beetle. Bob the beetle rider." A breeze tripped through the air. There was a scent on it Bob didn''t recognize. Something sweet and inviting. A part of Bob wanted to rush off in the scent''s direction. But he was a rational being. He was intellectually superior. He wasn''t just going to chase after some random smell. It was obviously a trap... What? All of the assembled beetles had fallen dead still for a moment. They all turned and looked in the direction of the smell. Oh no, oh no. One heartbeat later and the whole host of insects was sprinting off towards the source of the fragrance. The whole host of insects and one golden retriever. Bloody dog. Chapter 71 - Excaliborn Evening had started to drip down over the grasslands. The sky was shading deeper and deeper, pale blue, into sea blue, into navy, while the sun shimmered tantalizingly, hovering over the line of the horizon. The air was fresh and clean, but with that unexplainable feeling of coming rain. The grasses, sloping and rising with the ground, swayed green, as winds wandered about on their evening business. You sit back and soak in the gentle lines of a gentle landscape. Except, hm... what might that be? There''s a silhouette in the distance. A great shadow speeding across the ground, climbing up hills and then plunging down them. You blink and rub your eyes. You must be seeing things. But when you look again, it''s still there. An enormous, beetle-shaped silhouette. An enormous, horned beetle-shaped silhouette. And what''s that on its back? A rider. A giant beetle and its rider. Did someone put something in your tea? Bob was riding the beetle. An injured, blinded, crippled beetle the size of a mini-van. He was riding the beetle into the unknown. The master-beetle along with the whole city of beetles had decided they ought to chase mindlessly after the first inviting fragrance that rolled along. Animals, am I right? George, I''m talking about you. Bob himself was certainly not immune to the heady scent. The scent called to your primal self. It was like a drug. Your body craved to be nearer, but Bob had enough fear and good sense to know that the most beautiful women tended to be rotten at heart. Personality over proportions. Bob didn''t have time to worry about that anyway. The most important question still needed answering. There was an elephant in the room. We''re all wondering it, aren''t we? Who had won the duel? Neither side had died and that left things unpleasantly ambiguous. Let''s examine our contestants. On the one hand was Bob Brown. He was in tip-top form, still feeling the warm buzz of a recent health-patch application. On the other hand was the sword master. The beetle, well, poor thing, most of its face had been melted off. Bob did his absolute best to avoid looking at the "wound;" bouncing around on the beetle''s back was nausea inducing enough already. He had a newfound awe for the flying caterpillars. Level 3 Raupenflieger pus was no joke. A full-health Bob or a permanently crippled beetle? Was that even a question? The outcome was crystal clear. I present to you our winner: Bob-- cough, was the use of the items allowed in a sanctioned duel? That''s a prickly, loaded, speciesist question. Humans are weak, squishy creatures. We fight with our wits and our tools. They''re an essential part of our combat strength. Why was the beetle allowed to bring a three-foot blade into the fight just because the thing was stuck to its forehead? Objective overruled. I give you our champion: Bob Brown. Thank you, thank you very much, thank you, thank you. And none of you folks believed I had a shot in hell did you? Don''t clap now, I know that''s what you were all thinking. He''s toast. Well Bob show''d ya. He show''d y''all didn''t he? Bob had won the duel without killing the beetle. That meant he was on track for fulfilling his secret ambition. All he had to do now was get the beetle to admit he''d won the duel and he''d have earned himself a lifelong companion. What should he call the beetle? A nice name. Something high-sounding and knightly. He had it. Arthur. Arthur and his legendary horn, Excaliborn. Now to address the defeated adversary. Bob did his best to stand up, well, half stand, clutching at the solitary handhold while tied into place by ropes of mud. "My noble adversary, you have fought bravely on the field of battle. All have witnessed your martial prowess. I acknowledge your strength and majesty. May our duel live on in the songs of bards for all the coming ages. I christen you, Arthur, after the flower of English chivalry. I would not strip the world of such a knight as you have shown yourself to be. Let us sheath our blades. Become my companion, Arthur. Together we shall accomplish deeds to rival the heroes of old." Bob waited. No response. "What do you say, Arthur? There is no shame in honorable defeat, valiantly contested. Hold your head high." Bob gagged a little as he caught sight of the beetle''s liquified features. "Only acknowledge yourself defeated and I will pour healing balm upon your wounds." The beetle continued to rush blindly after the smell. Was the beetle ignoring him or had the acid stolen not only the animal''s sight but its hearing? Where are a beetle''s ears? There were no mammalian ear structures on its face. Was it possible the ears weren''t on the creature''s head? Bob looked over the beetle''s back and then the legs. No ear-like growths. Maybe they were on its belly. No, that didn''t make sense. Didn''t it? Where are a beetle''s ears? Interclass relations among the animal kingdom are most challenging. None of your typical assumptions carry over. Maybe the beetle wasn''t satisfied. Bob tried to put himself in the beetle''s shoes. He was a proud beetle, a sage of the sword-path, ruler of the emerald city. And then some two-legged hobbit had sauntered up to his gates, burned down his city, and bested him shamelessly in a trumped-up duel. And now that hateful hobbit had offered him a position as its companion (read steed).The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Bob nodded. It was a bad offer from the beetle''s perspective. How could he sweeten the deal? If only he still had a knight position open in his retinue... Why''d he have to go give his only slot to George? An offer of legitimate knighthood would demonstrate that he meant to treat the beetle as an equal and not as a conquered slave. That reminded Bob. "George, how are you doing down there?" The dog was running alongside the tank-beetle. He looked up at Bob and barked happily. The whole area was swarming with smaller beetles, all heading in the same direction. None of the beetles bothered the dog and the dog didn''t seem particularly bothered by his proximity to the beetles. What was wrong with that dog? "George, you want to come up here?" Bob could probably work something out with Harry. George barked once, looked down and kept running. I''ll take that as a no. Well it was good for the dog to get some exercise. Bob wouldn''t stay it to the dog''s face, but recently George might have been overeating a tad. Bob put aside the Arthur problem for now. He''d reopen negotiations whenever they arrived at wherever they were going. By which he meant, whenever they plunged into whatever trap was waiting for them. Because it was definitely a trap. Thankfully, they had a good hundred beetles to spring the trap. If things went well, maybe Bob and George could swoop in at the end and steal everyone''s experience. Bob had time to waste so he figured he might as well catch up on his notifications. Harry had done a great job of lashing Bob to the horn peg and Bob didn''t feel particularly uncomfortable. He might get a little carsick from the rocking motion. But it was worth the cost if he could finally find out what gains he''d made. First his two level up notifications:
Congratulations: Level up 7 - > 8 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to dexterity assigned Minor bonus to strength assigned Token bonus to intelligence assigned Minor decrease to vitality assigned
Congratulations: Level up 8 - > 9 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to dexterity assigned Minor bonus to intelligence assigned Token bonus to strength assigned Minor decrease to vitality assigned
Those translated into final stats:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 9 (99%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,876,100 credits Stats:
Interesting. He''d had enough level gains that he could begin to see the pattern behind the assignments. The system seemed like it was "randomly" trying to min-max Bob''s build. It was dumping everything into intelligence, dexterity and luck, while sprinkling in a little bit of strength, and now and again throwing tantalizing, token morsels to his wisdom. Bob reasoned through the build. If intelligence roughly corresponded to mana pool and wisdom was mana regeneration, that meant Bob could deal massive burst damage from the beginning of a fight, but would suck at extended combat. That sounded awfully like an ambush predator. Attack from cover with overwhelming force and battles would be over before they''d even begun. If you killed an enemy without depleting your mana pool, what did you need regeneration for? At the same time, if things went sour, Bob had the dexterity to dodge effectively, a bit of strength to brute-force where needed, and a generous dollop of luck to grease the wheels of fortune. Those weren''t fighting stats. They were running away stats. He was turning into a real guerrilla warrior. Brutal ambushes that melted away into cover and then reappeared further down the road. Was the system telling him how best to use his powers? Or maybe it was assigning stats based on his observed trajectory? It really annoyed Bob that every gain had to come with a hit to something else. Bob envied the story-book protagonists whose every level-up made them unilaterally stronger. But in the real world, everything has a tradeoff. By docking his constitution and vitality over and over, the system was basically telling him not to get hit. Not to get cocky or big headed. Not to think he could just power through bad situations. Murdering the wisdom stat conveyed a similar message. If his mana hadn''t regenerated, then he couldn''t go on fighting and he''d have to run away. And what had Bob done? Taken on one-vs-one duels against giant weapon-masters. Smart Bob, smart. If Bob was honest, it really wasn''t a bad build strategy. Annoyingly, it was probably a better build than Bob himself would have come up with. It''s pretty depressing to think that randomness made superior decisions to Bob, but any self-aware human should be able to recognize we don''t always decide things rationally, especially when it comes to deciding for ourselves. And then there was that level percentage: "Level: 9 (99%)". It wasn''t a coincidence. Bob had killed scores and scores of beetles in the experience factory. Privately he''d guessed himself to be closer to level 12 and yet his experience gains had ceilinged at level 9. What did he need to take himself over the edge? He remembered an unpleasant quest that involved killing sentients. He swallowed. He really hoped he wouldn''t have to do that. Maybe he''d gotten some kind of level up quest? Yeah that sounded plausible. That had to be it. Two notifications left:
Achievement Upgraded: Indiscriminate - > Monster Achievement: Monster Man is the cruelest animal. Effect:
Chapter 72 - A Good Man
Achievement: Monster Man is the cruelest animal. Effect:
Bob buried his head in his chest and muttered something that sounded awfully like "fuck''s sake." He let out a long slow breath. Had Bob expected something like this? Of course not, maybe, fine, he wasn''t all that surprised. If there was an achievement for covering yourself in mud, then there''s no way the system would silently pass over everything Bob had done. He wouldn''t think about it. The achievement''s name and title, they were just... flavor text. Just flavor text. Who reads flavor text anyway? He wouldn''t think about it. And look, the effects aren''t that bad. Yes the percentage decrease to wisdom was punishing, but that had been largely deserved; it really hadn''t been Bob''s wisest plan. An increase to will and an across-the-board bump to his damage output were both welcome. Not to mention a new ability. Everybody loves new abilities.
Skill: Aura of Fear (Demon) An invisible aura surrounds you. It can be felt as a cold, unsettling presence about your person. Weaker minds will flee from you. Resistible.
Bob massaged his scalp. It''ll be okay Bob. It''ll be okay. You''re strong Bob. You''ve got this. That had to be the worst ability ever, bar none. Who would ever choose an ability like that? Even a dark lord wants friends, no? Companions, bed-fellows? If everybody pisses themselves and runs away from you, you''re going to turn lonely and bitter fast. Bob, it''s fine. You''ll turn off the ability and pretend this never happened. Oh no. Don''t say it Bob. Don''t say it. It''s a passive ability. Of course it''s a passive ability. And of course there''s no way to give up an achievement. I have a permanent aura of fear. Like it''s not difficult enough to make friends as an adult. This was going to make life so damn complicated moving forward. Was the situation salvageable? Achievements could be upgraded, right? Maybe if Bob kept doing good things, it would change back into something more palatable. Repentance shall save the wicked. Was Bob wicked? Bob grimaced. "I thought you said you weren''t going to think about it." "It''s not that easy, is it?" Bob still imagined himself as an average-joe. The kind of person you pass on the street without taking a second glance. So the achievement had hit him like a bucket of ice water to the face. The system considered him a monster. A monster. He had the achievement to prove it. Was he a monster? He wanted to argue. He wanted to say it was underserved. He was a good man. But he hesitated. He had done some truly awful things. You read about ancient armies sacking cities. And in your head you just cross off a point on the map. On the ground though, on the ground... Well Bob had only gotten a taste, but it had been enough. Just the memory was enough to make bile creep up his throat, to make his eyes sting; he saw that cloying, sickly smoke, the shadows of death and fire. Bob wasn''t a psychopath. He didn''t slaughter indiscriminately. He''d never willfully attacked sentients. Others wouldn''t even pause before attacking. It was a dog-eat-dog world. Death was a familiar face. Others would have... Hadn''t Bob only fought monsters? Weren''t monsters supposed to be dumb, wildly aggressive creatures? That''s what video games taught you. You were doing the world a service by killing them. The townsfolk would shower praise and gold on your head. But what had the achievement said? Man is the cruelest animal. He remembered those lines: I am become death, the destroyer of worlds. Bob couldn''t pretend Arthur here and his band of merry beetles were mindless killing-machines. They might be monsters, but they were still intelligent; they formed bonds and communities; they built cities. They didn''t deserve death. Bob had needed strength. And he wished he could have gotten it some other way. But look, if he were honest, if it were really a choice between saving George and himself, and burning that beetle city to the ground, Bob knew he would do it again. Each and every time he''d make the same choice. All life wasn''t equal in his eyes. Maybe that made him a monster. But then the man who''d sacrifice his own child to save two strangers looked awfully like a monster to Bob. A rational monster sure. A philosophical monster. A monster who could look in the mirror and see a good man. The choice itself didn''t bother Bob. It was the doubt that bothered Bob. Did it have to be this way? Had it really been an us or you question? Maybe Bob hadn''t looked hard enough for another path. Maybe there had been another way, some road with less blood but leading to the same ends? Their lives meant less to him. But they didn''t mean nothing. He was suffering, wasn''t he? Look at him now. He was suffering. Wasn''t that the mark of a good man? Only an evil man is without doubt. He rubbed a hand across his fate and sighed. He''d studied philosophy at university. But then he''d lived an ordinary life. And in an ordinary life, how many of your decisions actually matter? A handful maybe. You can count them on your fingers. Now though, now his decisions mattered. Every last one. And he wanted to make the right choices. He wanted to be a good man. Not in the eyes of the system, but in his own eyes.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. He clicked open the final notification:
Quest Update: Quest: Sky''s the limit (Personal) Count to 1,001 out loudd without misisng a numper (max interval 2 seconds). Optional challenge: count backwards Time Limit: before reaching level 10 Reward: (hidden) Optional Reward: Jonny the Man - The Kiwi Warriors
That wasn''t a secret evolution quest. It was the Jonny the Man quest. The one with the dyslexic quest writer and the pointless challenge. The one he had valiantly attempted and failed previously. The new condition seared itself into Bob''s mind: "Time Limit: before reaching level 10". "What?" Bob goldfished. "T-t-that''s n-not f-fair. You can''t just change a quest on me like that. And right when I''m on the cusp of hitting level 10. It''s a violation. A violation of... consumer protection rights. I''ll throw the law at you." It must be nice to be the system. It could do whatever it wanted. Its subjects had to shut up and take it. Bob could think of a few tyrants who''d be green with envy at the thought. Very well, very well. For the heavens to bestow upon Bob an opportunity to reacquire a copy of Jonny the Man and finish the interrupted story had been a miracle. You don''t get far squandering miracles. Thankfully now was the perfect time to start on his counting quest, he was plopped down on a beetle''s back, killing time. He''d wrap the whole thing up before they arrived and maybe even get in a little bit of reading. One thousand and one, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine. Bob warmed up fast. Maybe it was the bumps to his intelligence, but he was speeding through the numbers. He didn''t stutter or stumble, he strove powerfully down the ninety hundreds, and by the time he''d reached the eight hundreds, Bob was spitting. He''d found his rhythm, his flow. He was rapping the shit of this quest. He lightening through the numbers. He was ice. He flowed. He twisted. He glided along. Had Bob missed his calling? Some people say that every person is born for one solitary purpose. To each soul is a destiny, a self-evident duty. The system was trying to show him the way. This was Bob''s destiny. Magical quality assurance, the Mud Arts, Canine Caretaking, those were all hobbies, distractions. Bob''s true purpose was here. He was the numbers rapper from hell. Six five seven, six five six, six five four. The words rolled off his tongue. He was murdering the numbers. He was on fire. Everyone could feel it. Those same beetles, the very ones who''d booed his dodges and mocked his attacks, they were enthralled. Of course there were. The beetles were musical creatures; naturally, they could appreciate a master. Bob looked out over his company. Five seven five, five seven four, five seven three. The whole hoard of beetles nodded their heads in unison, marking out the beats of the music, as they rushed off into the unknown. This is what it felt like to be a star. This is glory. This is adoration. Bob danced over the beats. He understood now, deep in his soul, that one great truth: music is power. They were all one. All united by sound. Bonded by music. They were the beetles. Bob, Arthur, George and Insects. Four four five, four foury four, four four three. The beetles banged their heads and leaned into the flow. Somewhere a percussion accompaniment started up, a sick, layered, overlapping beat. Four twenty one, four twenty, four one nine. Communion through melody. These beetles, these beetles were his people, Bob''s people. The past was in the past, forgiven through music, transcended through sound. Together they had covered an enormous distance. The northern forests, once a black mist at the end of sight, loomed tall in front of them. They''d been downwind of the scent and the wind had pushed deep into the grasslands before finding them. Bob started to hear noises, splintered wood, battle calls, moaning. He smelled blood on the air. No, it was too soon. He was still only in the three hundreds. He needed more time. Bob stood up and peered over his beetle steed. Three two four, three two three, three two two. The scene was chaos. The beetles looked to be the last to arrive at this mad death party. Bob''s vision swam with little grey annotations. Monsters, monsters, everywhere. There were jumping spiders, grass crocodiles, reaper-insects; Raupenflieger pus was splattered over everyone and everything. There were a whole contingent of forest creatures Bob had never seen before: belligerent Hawthorn trees, upside-down owls, a godzilla woodlouse, many-tailed foxes, tree-fish. It was a war of everyone against everyone. The monsters looked blood-frenzied. Striking wildly and accepting whatever punishment came back. The forest edge was a maze of dead and dying, corpses and wounded. The whole ground seemed to squirm and wriggle as a hundred overlapping combats played out. And there, splat in the eye of the storm, were three familiar faces and one unfamiliar one. Bob raised an eyebrow and called out interrogatively: "Three zero five?" Three pairs of eyes looked up at Bob. "Hey, it''s that bloke with a dog. He''s riding a beetle." "What did he say?" "Couldn''t catch the words." "Lad, you told us he''d died." "His scent vanished in the mud slide. You do the maths." "Well he''s not dead, is he?" "I can see that." Bob looked down at three''s company. The three men were clustered around a patch of thick oaks. They were desperately beating back wave after wave of monsters. In their centre lay a semi-conscious woman, her wrists and feet tied. If Bob''s nose was right, the fragrance was coming from her. Bob eyed the woman meaningfully and then tilted his head at Rad: "three zero four?" Rad swallowed guilty and looked away. Bob nodded. That''s about what he''d expected. He''d given them the benefit of the doubt. He hadn''t assumed. He''d asked. His stomach bubbled. Bob hadn''t wanted to fight sentients. He hadn''t wanted to fight people. He wasn''t a murderer. He didn''t kill for sport. But this, this was just unacceptable. They were asking for death. Bob ground his teeth together. This was what the system wanted wasn''t it? This was why he was trapped at level 9.99. He was supposed to kill them. He was being manipulated. And yet he looked at the helpless woman. That might have been him. That might have been George. They were asking for death. Asking for it. Bob muttered something under his breath. He''d decided. He swept out his hand across the line of advancing of beetles and the beetles stopped, waiting for the voice of the prophet. He let them stand there frozen for half a second, while the three monsters in human-skin stared open-mouthed at his army. Then he roared out: "THREE HUNDRED!" The beetles stamped their feet against the ground and charged. Chapter 73 - The smile of death The beetles charged. Horns forward, heads to the ground, devouring the open space and then driving their momentum into the enemy line. The enemy line buckled, gave back, gave back, then held firm. The sheer weight of enemy numbers backstopped their advance. Individually each beetle was a poor match for its adversary. Beetle soldiers started to fall. One here, one there, one caught in an ambush, another just overwhelmed by brute force. But battle calmed the beetle soldiers. Long practice had them reforming smoothly, trimming their lines and grouping together. Soon there were no individual soldiers. There was only one mass of organized muscle, the beetle phalanx, with its deep ranks and shoulder-to-shoulder companies, horns fanning forward. Together the beetle phalanx ground into the enemy. So began the long, slow push. Bob kept a side-eye on George. He was waiting for the moment when the beetles suddenly looked at each other and realized there was a dog in their midst. A dog sitting at the top of the most wanted list. Bob needed to get George out of there. He was scratching his head, wondering how on earth he could evacuate the dog, when, what, the beetles, were they, were they opening up a path for the dog? Bob needn''t have worried. Somehow George had managed to ingratiate himself with the surrounding beetles during their long trek together. I mean the way the beetles treated him... It was like he was an old war buddy and not the flame that had burned down their city. Dogs really had it nice. Imagine what it''d be like to be universally loved. Heaven on earth. The beetles ushered George through to the front lines. He might have been their chosen champion, the respect and deference they showered on him. But George certainly earned his keep. He trotted forward and unleashed a billow of red flame that vaporized a knot of enemies. The beetles swarmed in after their champion. Arthur didn''t feel the need to concern himself with the small fry. He was a big fish. His target was other big fish. That or maybe the animal just had no idea what he was doing. He was blind after all. Either way he literally straight-lined it towards three''s company. Young trees blocking the way, splintered. Lesser monsters, dashed underfoot or tossed to either side. The giant woodlouse, viciously horn-skewered. The woodlouse hadn''t even had time to curl up defensively, so suddenly did Arthur steamroll into it. The blunted horn penetrated soft flesh and a transparent liquid gushed out as the woodlouse seemed almost to deflate. Arthur barely seemed to notice. He increased pace, hauling his trophy in front of him like it was a fancy hat and not a colossal monster slowly dying. He charged clean through the melee. Arthur was on the warpath. Bar not the way of the beetle and his rider. Arthur ramped up speed as he neared the patch of oak trees, he couched his lance and galloped at the enemy stronghold. For glory! The beetle-train slammed into one of the ancient trees. There was an explosion. Woodlouse blood and guts rained down on everyone. The beetle''s horn had thrust clean through the trunk and nearly impaled Chad, who was trembling on hands and knees staring up at the weapon hovering in front of him. The poor woodlouse, caught between the tree and the beetle''s head, had been viced together and splattered under the pressure. Crack. The oak teetered, it wobbled. Rad looked up, open-mouthed, as the enormous pillar of wood trembled over his head. The oak held. Arthur''s charge was broken. The beetle kept rotating his legs, trying to power through, but he was all tangled up in the branches, his horn caught fast, his strength and anger dripping away. The mighty oak had endured. The strength of age and slow growth. Bob, on the other hand, had been thrown clean out of his seat as the impact jerked the horn-peg out of Arthur''s body. He''d landed in the mud a few feet away and skipped across the ground before being deposited in a friendly bramble bush. Bob staggered up to his feet, mumbling something about two eight five. The sounds of battle raged all around him. He was disoriented. His head spun and his vision doubled. He put one hand against a tree to steady himself and was almost beheaded by a reaper insect''s stray slash. He managed to duck out of the way at the last second, only for an owl-bat to score a mean scrap along his neck. He whipped Harry off and cloaked away the animal. It was a madhouse. He''d just gotten to his feet when a spider crashed into him. He tensed, preparing to defend himself, before realizing the spider was already dead, its belly slashed open. His vision cleared. Where was Arthur?The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Rad was walking calmly over to the pinned Arthur, screwdriver in hand. "Two eight two," Bob called out, "two eight one, two eighty." Rad wasn''t distracted. He didn''t even look around. Maybe he couldn''t hear Bob. Bob rushed forward. He''d make it. He could still make it. Bob tripped over a root and face planted. A good thing too because one of the last surviving Raupenflieger exploded over his head. But when Bob looked up, Rad was standing beside Arthur''s head. "Two seven nine!" Bob shouted at Rad to stop. "Two seven eight," he pleaded with the man. The heartless, evil man. The screwdriver started to whir. Vrrr-vrrr-vrrr. The blade slid cleanly into Arthur''s head. The beetle stopped struggling. The blade slid out. The whirring sound stopped. Rad turned away and walked back to his friends. Bob jumped up. It wasn''t over. Not yet. Bob threw himself forward, he somersaulted, he dodged, he''d made it all the way to Arthur''s side. He gasped for breath as he swung his pack around and fumbled for a health patch. He''d made it. He dropped the patch. He grabbed out another one. He dropped it. He caught it. He tore it open and slapped it on Arthur''s side. He''d made it. He sighed, relaxed, let himself slump against the beetle''s body. Arthur didn''t stir. Bob prodded the beetle. Nothing. Bob prodded the beetle harder. Nothing. Bob swallowed. He took out another patch. He slapped it on. The patches were magic. Magic! That impossible force of fantasy with the power to do the unthinkable. Arthur would be okay. Arthur was Bob''s companion. His knight. His steed. Bob and the beetle. They''d crossed blades together. They''d galloped across the plain together. Dammit! When had Bob started caring so much for the animal? Bob pounded his chest. This weak heart of mine. Arthur didn''t move. The patches were broken. They weren''t working. One hole in the brain too many. "Two six four. Two six three." Bob moaned into Arthur''s side. It was his fault. He''d wounded Arthur to the point where the beetle couldn''t defend himself properly. Why hadn''t he healed the animal on the way here? He could have. He should have. But in his head, he''d still thought of the creature as a monster. A thing that couldn''t appreciate good intentions or gratitude. He worried the animal would betray him. He was the betrayer. Arthur was dead. Bob had been so prejudiced against the creatures. He''d attacked them without cause. He''d ravaged their home. He''d farmed them for experience. And even after he''d seen past their monstrous form, he''d doubted them. He heard the beetle''s war music echoing across the forest. The rear ranks drummed their horns together, encouraging the front-liners to hold steady, to keep the line and push back the enemy. The beetles were gaining ground inch by inch. Their enemies were disunited. One monster would backstab another while it was distracted by the beetles and the beetle war machine would grind forward. And what was that? George was padding lightly over the beetle''s backs. He made his way up and down the line, fire-breathing away a pockets of fierce resistance. Look how the beetles trusted him. Look how they worked together. And Bob had sent Arthur into battle blind and wounded. Bob wanted to be a better man. But the way was hard. And every step brought him fresh regrets. Harry threw himself up as a dart flew at Bob''s position. They hadn''t hesitated. They hadn''t hesitated. They''d meant to kill him here. Harry caught the dart a few inches away from Bob''s face. The blade penetrated easily, but the handle and feathers stayed caught. The dart continued to strain against the cloak, struggling to break free and push its way into Bob''s face. That must be Lad''s companion object: telekinetic darts. Or is telekinesis his ability? It didn''t matter. Bob''s mission was clear. His course set. His intention sharp. They would know the mud magician. A few testing drops of rain pattered down and then the storm came. The rain sheeted over them. In two seconds everybody was drenched through. Water pooled in the churned up earth. The leaves trembled. A cold, dark, night rain. The rain of the mud magician. Bob rose to his feet. Hood up. A pearly, white dagger in hand. The smile of death. The three men faltered a little at the sight of him. At those dark, burning eyes. Something about the figure made them uneasy. Their base senses tingled, telling them to flee, to run away and never look back. They felt his eyes upon them and they were afraid. He was chanting. They tried to parse out what he was saying. Some arcane formulation, some spell of destruction, some evil prayer. Numbers, they heard numbers. And then out of nowhere a massive crocodile lunged at the figure. They were saved. Fortune had not abandoned them. But then.. Chad stepped back instinctively. The crocodile had disappeared. Just vanished. Like the earth had suddenly chasmed opened and swallowed the monster under. It had happened in the blink of an eye. That terrifying monster just, snap, and disappeared. Hell had reached up and devoured the beast. Chad shook his head. The knife fell out of his hand. There was no fighting something like that. He looked from Rad to Lad, begging them with his eyes: "they should run, they had to run. Now was their last chance. Their own chance. That thing wasn''t prey. That thing was a demon, an avenging angel, a god of death." The cold rain sheeted over him and he felt the chill in his bones. It was a monster standing there in front of them. A monster that eats monsters. They would know the mud magician. Chapter 74 - Only a Man "One four eight, one four seven." Chad stepped back. He started to turn. "Chad, what are you doing? Get back in position." Chad froze. His eyes locked on the man in the dark cloak. Raw terror across his face. "Chad! Chad!" But Rad felt the same dread; it emanated from the figure, rolling out as waves of despair, intangible, yet heavy and undeniable. That wasn''t the weakling Rad remembered. What had he called himself? Bob? That groveling, subservient man who''d spent a thousand credits to buy himself twenty-four hours grace. The man had changed. He''d grown strong and... wicked? But so had they. So had they. "Chad, snap out of it." Rad clapped Chad on the shoulder and pressed the dropped dagger into the man''s hand. "Take it." He looked between his two friends. "There''s three of us. He''s just one man. We''ve all faced down our share of monsters." Chad nodded slowly, squeezing the tutorial knife so hard his knuckles paled. Rad could see he wasn''t convinced. "You saw what he did to the croc?" "Yeah I saw." Chad didn''t go on. He didn''t have to. The monster had been vaporized. One second it was there and then darkness. "Chad, he''s just got some kind of earth control ability. Don''t sweat it. Look, everybody watch their feet. He might try to trip us up or something." "That or swallow us whole," Chad whispered to himself. "Stay near the trees. Be ready to grab on at a moment''s notice. The roots should stop him pulling us under. We''''ll stay on the defensive. It''s madness out there. Just watch, he''ll get swamped by the monsters. Mark my words. We''ll eat him alive." Chad was shaking his head. "Are you guys blind? For christ''s sake, the man rode in on a giant unicorn beetle leading a bloody army. You''re laughing if you think some wandering monster gonna to faze him. No fucking way. I''m telling you. We got to run. We got to run right now." Lad scoffed, but Rad was thoughtful. "It''s too risky, Chad. The forest''s swarming with monsters. The girl did something. She summoned them somehow. Companion object bullshit." He nodded at something that looked like a perfume bottle in the tied-up girl''s hand. "We''ve only lasted so long because of these trees. Even that beetle Godzilla couldn''t penetrate. If we hold our ground, we''ve got a shot." "Why doesn''t he attack?" Lad asked. "Chad''s pissing himself and we''re all out of position." Lad was right. It was the perfect moment for sudden violence. The man should''ve attacked them. But he hadn''t. He just stood there, glaring at the three of them, boring into them with his eyes, like he was cursing their souls, that white dagger glittering unnaturally in his hand. Where had he found a weapon like that? The rain torrented down his cloak, but he didn''t seem to get wet. He was... he was chanting. "Lad, what''s he saying? Can you hear?" "It''s numbers, Rad. One two five, one two four. He''s counting down." "He''s counting down..." Rad considered. "Change of plan. We attack now. We can''t let him finish that spell." A spell with a five minute cast time? What on earth would it do? Tear the heavens open and call down the god of thunder. "Lad pepper him with your darts. Chad you''re our tank." Chad groaned. "Chad, I''ll be right behind you, ready with a heal." Chad groaned, but he set his jaw and readied himself. "Good man." Rad checked the ground, mapping out his approach. "Now!" Chad''s form swelled as he activated his buff-up ability. His strides widened. He moved with a new grace and a kind of raw power. The ability doubled all his physical stats, turning him into a juggernaut powerhouse while active. Boosted Chad could punch through solid wood, shrug off devastating punishment and balance easily on the most precarious of footholds. Of course, he could only maintain the ability for a couple minutes and at the end he''d get hit with a period of weakness, but it was the perfect ability for short bouts of intense combat. Rad stalked up behind, cradling his screwdriver. He was the finisher. If Chad could pin an adversary in place, Rad could end them. The medical screwdriver pasted through bone, shell, flesh. It didn''t matter. He''d yet to find the substance that could stand up to his weapon. Rad only needed the one opening. That would be enough. They could do this. The two of them closed in on the hooded man. "Ninety seven, ninety six." The numbers ticked ominously down. Chad opened with a vicious swing of the knife. It was a blazing, inhuman strike. At the same moment, one of Lad''s darts zoomed forward pincering the enemy. Perfect, Rad thought, as he kept his eyes trained on their target, poised to attack. He nodded his head. Their teamwork was flawless; they could read each other''s intentions. Their powers meshed together, creating something stronger than its parts. "This bastard picked the wrong team to mess with." The magician sidestepped. Chad''s blow swung wide. The magician twitched his head. Lad''s dart whizzed past. He heard Lad cursing to himself. "How fucking high is his dexterity. Isn''t he supposed to be a mage?" To Rad''s eyes, Chad''s boosted swings were like metallic blurs, just shimmers in the air. His mind didn''t even have to process the attacks. So to dodge like that... Who was this guy?A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Chad, unfazed, reversed grip and daggered down at the magician''s leg, but the magician anticipated, raising his leg and stomped down on Chad''s fingers. Chad grunted a little, more out of surprise than pain. He shrugged off the blow and bear-hugged the man with his left arm, preparing to knee him in the groin. But Chad''s grip failed; he slid unnaturally off the cloak, like he was wrestling water. Chad caught himself with an outstretched leg and made to hammer the dagger handle into the man''s stomach. Lad picked that moment to commit, three darts pinpointing in at the magician from all sides. Rad tensed, waiting for the moment when he''d jump in and execute the man. But the magician twisted, letting Chad''s blow skim across his stomach, just as the man''s cloak billowed out, like it had a mind of its own, catching all three darts and jerking them off course. The white dagger stabbed down at Chad''s face and Chad fell backwards, only managing to seize the man''s grip at the very last moment. Chad''s scramblings pulled the man off his feet and down on top of him. Chad had him by the wrist. Now was Rad''s chance. "Hold him Chad." Rad jumped forward, the screwdriver starting to spin up. Time to end this. Rad crumbled to the ground as something massive impacted him from behind. There was a crunch and a flash of white pain. "My leg, my leg." The next thing Rad knew there was a mud-soaked crocodile clamping down on his leg and starting to drag him away. That fucking crocodile. Had it been a trap? Had it all been a fucking trap? Were they dancing on his fucking palm? Rad''s consciousness flickered. He was blacking out. It hurt too bad. He''d pass out and die. The crocodile shuddered as Lad put a dart through its eye. Rad''s body moved instinctively. The screwdriver swung round and bored into the crocodile''s head. The monster died instantly and Rad rolled away, starting to heal himself; his leg was a bloody mess. He''d need at least ten seconds before he could stand. "Seventy seven, seventy six." Countdown to the end of the world. The man was still counting. He was still fucking counting. What was wrong with him? How was he maintaining his concentration? They had to stop that spell. Rad watched helplessly as Chad and the man struggled against each other. Chad was the stronger. He was slowly forcing away that white dagger, even as the man leveraged his whole weight over the blade. Something was wrong with the man''s right arm. It just hung there limply. We''ve injured him. He''s only a man. He''s only a man. Chad was capitalizing on the weakness, using his free hand to pummel the man''s ribs in. Mighty, rattling blows. Chad had done it. He''d fucking done it. No, something looked wrong. Rad was a doctor. He understood pain. And the man wasn''t hurting. There was no grunting sigh; his eyes didn''t bulge out; his gaze didn''t waver, even as hammer blow after hammer blow impacted into his ribs. The cloak? Somehow the cloak was floating a few inches away from the man''s body, dispersing the force of the punches before they reached the man. "Lad, why aren''t you helping?" Rad shouted. What the hell was he doing? Their man was pinned. "Fuck off. I''m trying. He''s doing something to my darts. He catches them in his cloak and then... I don''t know. They feel far away and surrounded by something gooey. Like he''s buried them underground or something." "How many do you have left?" "Only the one I used on the crocodile" "Dammit. Dammit." Rad''s leg was almost healed. Two more seconds. He started to crawl towards the pair. One more second. Then he''d be up and diving at the man. Vrrr, vrrr, vrrr. The screwdriver whirred on. The magician gave up on the contest of strength. He dropped the dagger. He was going to flee. Not with Chad''s iron grip on his wrist. But no, the cloak caught the falling dagger and stabbed it into Chad''s side. Chad gasped at the sudden wound, his grip slackening involuntarily, letting the man kick himself away, just as Rad dived at him with the screwdriver. The bit drilled forward, slicing through the mantle and... but the man was already jumping back. He was out of range. Rad had missed his chance. Rad bent down and pulled out the white dagger, throwing it to Lad for safekeeping. He put both hands on Chad''s wound and started channeled healing energy. The wound sealed itself up and the flush of color seeped back into Chad''s cheeks. "Why didn''t you get him?" Chad spat out. "You didn''t see me get jumped by that crocodile?" "No I didn''t. I was fighting for my life here." Chad noticed the reptile corpse for the first time. He looked like he wanted to say more, but turned on Lad instead, "what excuse do you have?" "Bastard''s eating up my darts. I can smell them down there." Lad sniffed and pointed into the ground. "Somehow he''s sunk them three or four feet down. I''m trying to get them out, but I can''t see what I''m doing." "Useless." Chad spat. "We should''ve run. I warned you." "Chad, how''s he keeping up with you in your boosted state?" Chad shook his head. "It''s not an ability. He''s just... fast. Quick-witted too." Chad sat up and eyed the magician, who was standing calmly a few feet away, continuing to chant. "He''s an amateur fighter. Not that strong either. That stomp was pitiful. He''s brittle too I reckon. A little longer and I''d have crushed his wrist in two. It''s that cloak of his. Slippery bastard. Thing moves on its own." "Twenty four, twenty three." All three men looked at each other. They were running out of time. Carl grunted himself to his feet. "What''s the plan Rad?" There was no more complaining. They were at the knife''s edge. Do or death. "Twenty two, twenty one" Rad put his head in his hands. "Twenty, nineteen." "Dammit all. I take lead. Lad give your last dart to Chad. Hover behind us with that white dagger. Chad on my left." They had one chance. Rad hoped Chad hadn''t been exaggerating the man''s weakness. Cause this plan needed Rad to tank at least one good hit. "You can win''t if you don''t roll," he muttered to himself. "Eighteen, seventeen." No time to hesitate. They had to interrupt that spell. Everything depended on that. Rad charged forward. The screwdriver whining. He stabbed forward and the man slid closer, impossibly fast, slamming a fist into Rad''s chest, and trying to knock the screwdriver out of Rad''s hand with his hip. Rad felt his chest get torn up. A spiked glove of hardened mud digging into his insides. Rad gritted his teeth and held on, flooding his body with healing mana. Chad was a show-off asshole. The punch hurt like hell. Rad slashed the screwdriver across, just as Chad arrived on his left flank. The man had no choice but to back up. "Got you." The screwdriver blade extended forward. The man''s eyes widened a fraction. He tried to turn the back step into a duck, but Chad was already leveling a low punch. Lad''s dart clasped in his fist. The ground under the man suddenly gave way. He was falling straight down into the earth. The screwdriver swept across, just skimming the man''s hood. But Chad''s blow thundered into him. There was a resounding crack and a gush of forced out air, as the man was cannoned to the right, shuddering into the side of the giant beetle. The dart''s extra range had let Chad pierce through the cloak. The man sputtered out blood, but he was still counting. "Five, four." The three of them closed desperately in. Lad''s last dart sprinted ahead. It jetted into the man''s side. "Yes!" The man shuddered, but kept chanting. Next came the white dagger like a shimmering arrowhead. But the man ducked and the dagger quivered into the beetle''s back. The man''s hood had fallen off. And he was smiling at them. That smile of death. Chad arrived next. His fist meteoring at the man''s head. But the magician let himself fall over to the side. "Three, two." Rad wasn''t going to make. His leg was screaming. His chest ached. He wasn''t going to make it. "One." Chapter 75 - You and I "One." Ping. The air in front of the Bob shimmered. The three men started to back away, eyes wide and afraid. The strong man was whimpering now, muttering over and over, "I told you, I told you, I told you." Another swiveled this way and that, hunting for some path out of the battlefield. The third just gazed up into the rain and waited for death. They would know the mud magician. All around them, the battle for the oak grove raged on. George was leading his army from the front. A golden knight barking encouragement to his troops, pointing them to their positions, ranging up and down the ranks. A fearless leader, who''d hop beyond the line of safety and bury an enemy champion in an explosion of red fire. The beetles were winning, grinding away at their disunited foe. George yelped out his shout of imminent victory. The enemy was wavering. Death and bloodletting had sobered the combatants. Some monsters started to flee. The phalanx spilled forward, fanning around the oak grove in a great encircling maneuver. The net was drawing closed.
Quest Complete - Sky''s the Limit Reward - Quest: Brave and Stupid Optional Reward - Jonny the Man - the Kiwi Warriors
Bob stretched out his hand and a book fell into it. My precious. The book''s cover pictured a ripped man sitting shirtless in meditation as an old, bearded sage whacked him on the back with a wooden rod. Across the front in big, blocky letters was written: Jonny the Man: The Kiwi Warriors. Bob sighed. He''d done it. He''d actually done it. That quest had looked a lot easier on paper. "Wait." The strong man stopped mewling and squinted at the title. What was his name again? Something stupid that ended with -ad. Fad, maybe? No. Drad? Wrong. Crad? Crad, that was it. Bob had an amazing memory. "I know that book," Crad called out to his companions, "isn''t that Jonny the Man?" Hats off to Crad. He must have recognized the cover design. More power to Jonny the Man. A masterpiece could be respected and admired even by the enemy. Some books are just universal. "What?" Another answered, continuing to back away. "You know, Jonny the Man, that litrpg novel with the over-powered MC?" "You''re describing every litrpg novel." "What''s wrong with you two?" "Can''t you read. Read the title." "Jonny, the, Man. Rad, he''s right." "Idiots. It''s a trap. A trap. What mad man..." Rad was struggling to find the right words, "what numskull would bother counting down in the middle of a life-or-death fight, just to, just to, just to get his hands on some pulp rubbish. Boys, we''ve got to run." "Rad, I know. I get it. It seems ridiculous. But I know that cover art. It''s Jonny the Man." While the three of them debated the literary merits of Jonny the Man and the sanity of Robert Brown, Bob groped around on the ground. He knew he''d dropped it here somewhere. There it was. He picked up a health patch lying nearby and slapped it on his chest. Aha, that was the good stuff. He was a user alright. His breathing got easier. The pain numbed. He grinned to himself. Time to show these clowns who''s boss. Because Bob had been holding back. Holding way back. That ridiculous quest expired as soon as he reached level 10. And he was sitting on the cusp. He couldn''t risk accidentally killing one of them, could he now. Do you know how hard it is to fight without ever seriously attacking? Not to mention, keeping track of the bloody count. Thank god Bob was so intelligent. But now things were different. No reason to hold back anymore. "We should attack." "Are you on something? We need to get out of here." "Look he''s injured. The spell... well I don''t know, but we''re all fine. Now''s our chance." "Guys, something smells off."Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Two words. Two words. A flash of brown. And one of them was crumbled on the ground. Blood gushing out of his throat. "Mud dart." Their leader flinched. He hadn''t even seen the attack. All the same he bent down to help his friend, putting a hand on the wounded man''s neck. The hand pulsed green. Bob smiled as he rose to his feet. He wiped the blood off his face, but it just smeared and darkened across his cheek. Death rising from sleep. The other man glanced over at Bob. His face paled. He tried to croak out a warning, but he couldn''t manage it and just turned tail and sprinted away. He was using some kind of boosting power. Every step lunged him forward. He was eating up the ground, hurtling into the distance. Maybe he''d escape. Maybe he''d push his way through and make it on the plains. Bob smiled. "Mudfall." The man disappeared. He fell into the darkness and then the darkness fell into him. Bob could feel the man struggling. He was panicking, flailing. He was weak and desperate. He didn''t know which way was up or out. He opened his mouth to scream and mud flowed in. He was choking. He was coughing. And then his form started to shrink. The buffed-up muscles deflated and withered. He still tried to paddle out, but the movements were feeble, trembling half-strokes that barely propelled him. He would drown down there. Bob didn''t even have to watch. It was already over. What a horrible, horrible way to die. Their leader was still forcing green energy into the crumbled man. It was too late. It was far too late. For the injured man, for his friend in the mud, for the leader kneeling there. Don''t you know death when you see it? The man looked up and saw Bob standing over him. The dark cloak, the white dagger, the aura of despair. He fell backwards into the mud, scrambling on hands and feet. He reached for his screwdriver, but Bob kicked it away. Too slow. They''d all been slow and weak. He was the mud magician. And they, they were nothing. "You were playing with us." The man spat out. "You could''ve slaughtered us whenever you wanted. You, you, monster." Bob''s lips twitched up. It''s so funny that the man should choose that word. That word seemed to follow Bob around. Yes, maybe he was a monster. This was cold-blooded murder, wasn''t it? He''d already killed two of them. And here was one more, entirely at his power. "Which of us is the monster I wonder," Bob mused aloud. "Him?" Bob nodded to Arthur, lying there dead with a hole in his skull. "Me?" Bob smiled and crouched down in front of the man. "You? Tell me, what makes a monster?" Rad''s eyes glanced away, somewhere back and towards the oak grove. Bob followed the line of his gaze and there was the woman, still tied up and gagged, her eyes open; she''d been watching this whole time. Bob nodded. "Maybe we''re all monsters at heart." "Look. It wasn''t me. I couldn''t stop them. I didn''t have any choice." "Yes, that''s what you told me before. Remember. When I had to buy my life." "It''s not like that." "You probably feel sorry for yourself. And I guess you should. Why''d you have to meet me? Why didn¡¯t you take the chance to kill me when I was weak? Things had been going so well. Blah, blah, blah." Tears were streaming out the man''s eyes. His body shuddered with repressed sobs. "You know, when I think about it. You''re just an ordinary man. Better than some. Worse than others. No demon. No great, evil power. Only the scum of the earth. And I bet you did pretty well for yourself in the before. What were you? A doctor? An upstanding, respectable citizen of the world. I applaud you." Bob leaned closer, their faces almost touching. "Strength is a terrible thing, don''t you think? The more I think about it, the more I realize that civilization depends on some kind of universal weakness. On there being something greater than ourselves. A god or a king or a government. Now they''re all gone. Pouf. In one moment, the system swept everything away. And now we, you and I, are the powers of the world. And among us powers, the only justice is strength." "Save me," the man blubbered out, bringing his hands up to hide his face. Bob stood up. He brushed off his cloak. He turned his back on the man. He started to walk towards the grove. The man peeked out between his fingers. His eyes widened. His hands fell down. He swallowed. He gasped. He thanked the heavens. "No." Thud. The pain hit him before he could process the word. Something warm and dark was spilling out of his neck. He was losing himself. He tried to drag his hand over the wound, to stop himself spilling out onto the ground and wasting away. He didn''t have the strength. A black mist swirled down over him. He was fading. The pain had disappeared. The emptiness was growing. The emptiness was worse, far worse than the pain. And then he was nothing. Bob steeled his jaw. He took one step after another. He had to help the woman. His stomach roiled. His heart screamed. It had been easier in the initiation. A touch, a pop and Sally had just disappeared. Disappeared, like she''d never been there at all. He hadn''t had to stare down at her corpse. He hadn''t had to feel her blood seep out into the mud. He hadn''t had to hear that death rattle, the frantic breathing diminishing into silence. Somehow he''d been able to pretend to himself that he hadn''t done it. That it was the system. That he was innocent. She was gazing at him. The woman. Was she afraid? He had wanted to save her. But maybe she was afraid of him now. Maybe she''d shrink back when he stretched out his hand. Maybe she should. Ping. So he''d died had he? That man. That doctor. A doctor? Just like Bob''s friend. Just like Nate. And maybe they knew each other. Dead. Dead at last. It had seemed to take forever. And yet Bob had only made it five steps. Five steps stretched out across eternity. They were all dead. All three of them. Bob had done it. He''d had to do it. And he had. He''d done it. He didn''t regret it. And yet he regretted the world that made him do it. He sighed. He wanted... But he didn''t know. This was victory wasn''t it? And victory is never as sweet as we imagine it. George had beaten back the monsters. The beetles had shown their mettle. The enemy was dead or fleeing. That notification was level ten knocking on the door. He''d done it. The girl was free. He''d saved her. It was over. It was the end. Happily ever after. And yet... Bob bit his lip. Happiness is something you only read about in stories. Chapter 76 - Of the Mud Bob looked up, into the rain, into the night clouds, into those grey dreams of a night sky, those pale, ethereal forms from another world. He looked up and sighed out. He smiled and then he frowned, because he''d done it. He''d done everything he ever wanted. All those impossible hopes. "Look at me now," he whispered up to the heavens. He was strong. He was terrifyingly strong. Only a few days ago and those three men had held his life in their hands. They had toyed with him. Squeezing him for coins. Letting him go only because they knew they could catch him again at their pleasure. Now each of them lay in his final sleep, vanquished and broken. Each of them fallen to a single, devastating blow. They had had no chance before the mud magician. They were the scum of the earth and he was the lightning, the divine thunderbolt. Bob gulped as he stopped and reflected for the first time. He was the strongest. The pinnacle. The mountain others aimed after. Him Bob Brown. He shook his head. Him, Bob Brown, the man whose primary school nickname had been Bob Poo, after an unfortunate instance in the school pool. He had reached level 10. "You''re all free now." Because he''d done it. He had freed everyone from the world quest. Not someone else. Not some invisible better. That "other" who is always one step ahead, living in a better house, with more friends and more hair, whose smile just looks brighter in the pictures than your own. No, there was no one else. Bob was the other man. Bob was the trailblazer, the champion, the hero. No, no, there must be some kind of mistake. The world was playing a trick on him. The curtain would fall down and the system would be laughing at him. But he stared at his hands, at the white dagger there, at the red tip. He looked back at the corpse of a man. The bloody, ruined corpse. That tangled flesh that had once been a doctor, that had helped people and dreamed and had probably loved someone and had probably been loved by someone. There was no mistake. Bob had done that. It''s an awful heavy thing to walk in front, to stand at the very edge. That''s where the wind and cold and the waves batter into you. There''s no hiding behind somebody else. There''s no-one else''s footsteps to walk in. You have to tread your own way, wading through doubt and suffering and fear. Bob had wished for strength. He''d risked his life again and again for strength and now he had it and now he had it... He was afraid of himself. Wasn''t there someone else, someone wiser and smarter, someone with a better heart, that deserved this strength more than him? There had to be someone else. Bob wasn''t all that great. He made stupid decisions. He had stupid thoughts. He laughed too much for someone with such terrible power. Why was he chosen? But no, he wasn''t chosen. He had chosen. He had done this. Luck had played a role. He didn''t deny that. But if he hadn''t started on the path, he never could have reached this place. Why had he done it again? What was worth all this? And then George came bounding over, tongue lolling out, tail wagging. A golden fur-ball who slammed shamelessly into Bob, knocking him clean off his feet. There''s something about a dog. Just something about the innocent cheerfulness. The happy, look-at-me bark. The tail beating against the ground. Bob couldn''t explain it. And yet he felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. Maybe the answer was worth less than the intention. Maybe being a good man consisted in nothing more than trying to be a good man. The dog barked twice and eyed his master, all the while drooling causally on Bob''s cloak. Bob nodded his head. He spoke pretty good dog by now, if he said so himself. George was looking for praise and boy had he earned it. Bob hugged the dog to him. "Good boy, good boy." He patted the dog''s head. George laughed and barked and reveled in his praise. "George, I had my eye on you out there. You were a right leader. A dog among beetles. A knight of the brown table." Bob gave a mock bow. "My gallant knight, Sir George, your valor on the field of battle this day was a sight to marvel upon. Your courage and daring, your strategic brilliance, your fiery blade-work, are the rival of any knight of my company. I, your lord, Viscount Brown of the Mud, commend you for your heroic deeds. May your fur ever shine golden. Well done, Sir Knight."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The dog preened, sitting up tall and striking a knightly expression. Bob''s grin turned wobbly. "I''m proud of you George. I''m glad you''re safe and you''re here and... You did good George." Somehow Bob was tearing up. What was wrong with him? He wiped his eyes, trying to hide the tears, but only ended up wiping mud into them. George barked and wagged his tail and snuggled up in Bob''s arms. He was the same innocent dog, with the same stupid grin, and terrible sense of timing. "George let me go. The woman. I''ve got to untie the poor girl." Bob really needed to work on his priority management. He untangled himself from George''s grip, only to gulp nervously at the sight arrayed in front of him. A company of beetles was drawn up there. They all stood at attention, in ruler-straight ranks, line after line, formed up neatly behind one of their captains. They were all looking at Bob. They were looking at him with respect, with pride and hope. Like he was their leader and ally and not their worst enemy. It stung him to the quick. Bob wasn''t as heartless as he liked to pretend himself to be and gratitude cuts deep. He frowned. What could he say to these animals? They waited on his word. And he''d done them so much wrong. He''d been so mean and prejudiced. And see how they had repaid his cruelty. They''d protected George. They''d beaten back the monsters. And even now they didn''t blame him. Though they should, they should. Bob straightened up and walked over to Arthur. He put his head against Arthur''s body and closed his eyes. He sighed out. "I''m sorry. I''m sorry for everything. I couldn''t protect him. It''s my fault," Bob addressed the captain of the beetles. He walked slowly up to the animal. He bowed his head. He stretched out his hands and held out the fragment of white horn. It was the least he could do. A knight should be buried with his blade. Bob''s heart shuddered when he saw all the beetles bow back. Dumb monsters, had he really thought that. Had he really treated them like tools, like mindless automatons put there to fuel his growth. Bob bowed lower. He wouldn''t lift his head. He held it bowed there, before these "monsters," he held it there, trying to communicate to them what he couldn''t express to himself, wanting them to know his terrible remorse, his heartfelt regret. He was crying again and the tears dripped down onto the mud. The captain stepped up. He took the horn fragment from Bob''s hand into his mandibles and stepped back. Bob didn''t move. He didn''t know what he expected. But he certainly didn''t expect this. Because the captain stepped forward and handed the horn back to Bob. "No, I couldn''t. It''s not right. I don''t..." Bob tried to refuse, but the beetle pushed it into his hand. "Why?" Bob mouthed to the ground, his hand clutching the white dagger. They were giving it to him. They were giving him this final memento of their fallen master. Bob nodded. Yes, this was better. He had won the duel. He had earned the weapon of the fallen. He would remember Arthur. "Thank you." The captain nodded, backed up a few steps and then swiveled towards Arthur''s corpse. At the signal, a contingent of beetles broke away from the company and took up stations around their lord. An honor guard for King Arthur. When Bob saw what they were doing, he too made to step up and aid them. He would help carry the great beetle, but the captain stopped him with an outstretched horn and shook his head. They would carry their own dead. Bob understood. It was as it should be. Every beetle with any strength left to him started up a dirge. It was a slow, thumping beat of their horns, a heavy, melancholy music of mourning. The sounds echoed over the field of victory. Victory and death. George added his voice to the music, howling and whining. Bob couldn''t find the words, so he just lowered his head and pressed one fist over his heart. The body of their lord rose gradually up and the beetles arranged themselves in a train behind it, as the honor guard started its glacial march forward. The long road back to a ruined homeland. It was the saddest thing Bob had ever seen. He didn''t quite know where the feelings came from, but they kept coming, overflowing and spilling out. He brushed away tear after tear. He hadn''t noticed, but somewhere they''d been building up all this time, frustration, fear and sadness. He was a soft-hearted fool. This was no way for the strong to behave, he chided himself, yet he didn''t want to change. If this was weakness, it was a weakness he hoped he wouldn''t lose. He didn''t want be that cold hero who slaughtered an army and then slept like a saint. Better to stand here and cry like a child. Bob decided. He reached out with the mud. He brought all three of the men together, burying them in the wet dirt, side by side under a dogwood tree. The tree would flower in spring and the petals would fall down on their grave. He found a rough stone and set it up over their bodies. He''d didn''t carve names. What''s in a name? And they did bad things, these three, but they were still humans; they''d probably done good things too. Maybe accidentally and unintentionally. In the end, it didn''t matter. Bob was doing it for himself. He stood over the grave, held up his hand and closed his eyes. He had killed these men and he didn''t regret it, but he''d didn''t hate them and somehow he had wanted to express that. The sad music of the beetles seemed to tremble in the air. Chapter 77 - Poetry Shit, Bob whispered to himself. Had he forgotten the woman? Of course not. Perish the thought. Well but the mind of man is finite. There are only so many things a person can maintain attention on at any given moment. The more you attend to, the more you must expel from your attention. Now it wasn''t Bob saying that. It was a physical law of the universe. Bob could absolutely not be blamed. If you want to blame someone, blame the physicists who discovered the law or the creator who framed the law, not poor, mortal Bob. She''d understand all that when he explained it to her, wouldn''t she? Bob approached slowly. He knew he ought to hurry, she was waiting and watching; every moment he delayed was another moment she had to endure in discomfort, but the woman was staring at him. She was absolutely staring at him and it was very much not a friendly, I-am-eternally-grateful stare. If anything, Bob felt a faint burning sensation every time he caught her gaze. A corner of Bob''s mind was shouting at him to just leave her tied up and make for the hills. Freedom! You''d think at some point you''d get strong enough that the prospect of being screamed at by a woman would no longer be frightening; alas, if such a fantastical state existed, Bob had yet to achieve it. He was shitting himself. "I''m-m sorry; the delay... I had to..." Bob started to ramble; he knew he wasn''t supposed to say he''d forgotten, but that really boxed in his explanatory creativity. "You see, the king, I mean, beetle, you know, the big one. Well the king just died and he was a good friend of mine. So, you understand..." Bob happened to glance into her fiery eyes at that moment. He cut himself short, "what am I saying. You''re not interested. I''ll explain later." She''d been tied up with her arms behind her back and wrapped around a tree trunk. And then, to round things off, gagged with fallen leaves. The leaves rustled as she tried to speak. Bob was eternally grateful that he couldn''t make out a word she was saying. "Hold on, I''ll get you down." Bob tried to pull away at her bonds. He pulled and the bonds held fast. "Bloody hell." They''d lashed her up with proper, thick branches. Crad must have done it, because no ordinary person could have knotted up the wood like this. Bob pulled out his white dagger with the bloody tip. The woman''s eyes widened. "Sorry. Didn''t mean to scare you. I can''t get them off with my hand. I''m going to have to cut them loose." Bob might have glanced sidelong at the woman as he tried to saw through the branches. These things happen. It was completely involuntary. You can''t shut off part of your eye. And mind he totally hadn''t noticed before (you¡¯re not supposed to notice these things), but the woman was rather attractive, quite attractive, well, no point underplaying the thing, extremely attractive. Not exactly in a soft, fall-into-your-arms, damsel-in-distress way. She had dark, black hair, large eyes, sharp, almost elven features. She looked fierce and independent. What was the word? Strong-willed? And did she look a little angry? Yes, Bob had not been imagining things. She looked very angry. Maybe she was angry at somebody else. There was nobody else around. "Got it. Here we go." Bob''s knife finally chopped through the last cord binding her wrists and she crumbled down. Bob caught her and set her up on her feet. She looked a little unsteady. "You alright there?" She reached up with her newly free hands and pulled the rotten leaves from her mouth. "Alright? Alright he asks me. Did you hear? After being tied up and gagged for hours? Your sense of humor is... charming." Bob rubbed his head and tried a weak, placating smile. "And isn''t it amusing how you managed to untie me before removing the gag? One might almost wonder if you enjoyed the silence." Bob started a little too guilty and her eyes narrowed. She had definitely noticed. "I see. Such a gentleman. And only the noblest intentions can have kept my savior away while he played with bugs and mongrels, leaving me bound up in a tree." Things were going sideways. She was exaggerating, slightly, a little, well, it was something in the way of expression. He might have been faster, but he''d got there in the end. Credit where credit is due. "Bob, hate to tell you this, but she''s waiting for an answer. " Bob had sort of assumed his was a silent role in the conversation. He would stand there, with bowed head and sad, self-deprecating expression as she explained to him his many faults and failings. But instead she was looking at him with dangerously flashing eyes and folded arms. She wanted to know why he hadn''t untied her sooner. First impressions dominate relationships. What have you got Bob? What have you got? Bob fumbled, Bob fumbled: "I wanted to take you down as fast as I could. Of course." "Of course." "It was the..." Bob snapped his fingers, "the beetles. They might look peaceful, but they''re technically monsters. They might have attacked you. I couldn''t risk exposing you to any danger." "Is that so? You seemed on rather good terms with these monsters. I remember something about their king being a good friend to you."Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "Ah, you heard that, did you?" "Yes. I''m afraid I have not yet learned how to close my ears to unpleasant conversation." "Still, better safe than sorry." Bob tried. She raised a mocking eyebrow but didn¡¯t press. Silence. Bob never thought he¡¯d appreciated it so much. Well played Bob. The woman tried to take a step, but she lost her balance and stumbled to the ground. "Are you okay? Can you walk?" "He asks the woman who has just fallen to the ground." Ok maybe a stupid question. "I guess I was supposed to do this." Bob bent down and lifted her up into his arms. It was a little awkward for him with one good arm and one mud arm, but he managed it somehow. "At least he is not absolutely hopeless." Now that sounded like a compliment. "Here''s a healing patch." Harry fished one out of Bob''s pack and dropped it onto the woman. "Just peel off the packaging and stick it anywhere that hurts." She frowned, but followed his instructions all the same. Bob could see the moment when the patch hit her. Her face lit up and her whole body relaxed. She even flashed him something that might have been mistaken for a grateful smile. Bob''s chest melted. Good things happen to good people. The health patch had taken the edge of her bad mood, but she didn''t look fully recovered. There were tired rings under her eyes and her breathing was shallow. Mana deprivation. It made sense. Somehow she''d managed to summon George, himself and every monster in a three kilometer radius. That must have taken a lot out of her. She''d need some time before she was feeling herself again. "So... what''s your name?" "Do you often carry women in your arms before asking their names?" Bob smiled. "What''s in a name?" "Sophie. Sophie Blanche." She almost smiled back. "A pleasure to meet you." He might have kissed her on the hand. One does get carried away. "And what should I call my savior?" "I¡¯m... Robert Brown." Better if she didn''t know he was a wanted man with a price tag of one million credits on his head. Money ruins all the best relationships. "I suppose it is only fitting that I express my gratitude. Thank you Robert for saving this Sophie. She does not know what might have happened if you had not appeared." "I only did what anyone else in my position would have done." She scoffed, but there was a smile hidden deep in the sound. "Isn''t that what I''m supposed to say?" "A gentleman knows when to speak and when to fall silent." "I..." Bob bit his tongue. She nodded to herself and closed her eyes. She must have been more exhausted than Bob had realized, because she was practically falling asleep in his arms. He couldn''t believe it. How had such a thing happened? It was poetry. Straight out of a fairytale. He caught the hint of that heady fragrance that had called him all the way to this place. It was weaker than before, delicate, but still deliciously intoxicating. It was coming from the woman. He smiled stupidly to himself. You know this adventure could have gone a lot worse, Bob thought to himself, as he stood there, watching the beetle procession trickle forward, holding a beautiful woman in his arms. Everything was perfect. George and he were uninjured. He had the long-awaited copy of Jonny the Man tucked in his inner pocket ready for a good binge. All their enemies were dead and defeated. He had earned himself the gratitude and respect of a fair lady. Bob recognized the closing soundtrack. The curtains were coming down. Enemies vanquished. Damsels saved. Rewards distributed. The hero gets the girl. This here was an ending. All that was left was to ride off into the sunset (except it was raining and dark out). If Bob ever wrote an autobiography, this is where he''d end the first book. One thing. Just one little thing. It had been niggling at the back of Bob''s mind. He had unchecked notifications. And nobody would be satisfied without seeing the glorious rewards that awaited the first sentient to reach level ten. He''d just peek at them. Just a glance.
Quest Completed - Better than you - 1 Reward: System Sponsorship (Rank D)
Title: System Sponsorship (Rank D) You might just be worth something. Effects:
Nothing like good old capitalist motivation. You want someone to do something, well then pony up there cowboy. Bob had seriously been wondering how you were supposed to make money in this post-system world and here was the answer. Get sponsored and level up. Now for the good stuff. Bob rubbed his hands together. The stuff we''ve all been waiting for. The mythical level ten. Saving the world. Ranking up. Growing in power. Wait a moment. Hold on now. Just hold on one sec. Just hold on one damn second. Bob searched through his inbox. Bob searched through his inbox again. That there, that stupid system sponsorship quest, that had been Bob''s last notification... He swallowed, steeled himself, closed his eyes and pulled up his status summary. He opened his eyes:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 9 (99%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,876,100 credits
"You promised me. You told me if I killed those men. You tricked me. There''s blood on these hands." Had the system promised him? Well... thinking back... no. Bob had just guessed. He''d assumed. There had been no evolution quest and killing ordinary monsters didn''t move his experience bar. So naturally, inevitably, he''d concluded that he had to kill sentients. He came to that conclusion and he''d been wrong. So you mean that death-defying counting stunt was all a waste of time? Bob breathed in, ready to curse the shit out of the manipulative, backstabbing system and then he remembered Sophie was dozing in his arms. He was a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn''t disturb a sleeping lady. He closed his eyes and let the breath flow out of him. How disappointing, but things could always be worse. Take comfort in that Bob. Take comfort in the good things. Bob''s eyes blazed open. "Sophie." Bob''s voice was serious. Sophie, like she was floating up from pleasant dreams, flickered her eyes open and answered sweetly, "what is it, Robert?" "Sophie, you''ve stopped your fragrance magic, haven''t you? You know, that smell that summoned us all here." "No, I... I forgot." Sophie fell out of Bob''s grip and knocked her head on the ground. "You, you, dropped me!" She glared up to see Bob staring into the distance with his mouth wide open. The ground had started to tremble. The air had turned sour and rancid. There was a whoosh. Something huge, something terrible, something squishy, something that glowed with a pale green light, had crested the nearby hill and kept going, launching itself into the air like a green comet; it was headed straight for them:
Der Glibbermeister (level 10)
End of Book 1 - The Sleeping Darkness BK 2 Chapter 1 - The Crush Book 2 - Idol Worship Bob was your ordinary bloke. He worked a crappy job and lived in a crappy apartment and ate crappy store-bought meals. After a long day at his crappy job, he''d come back to his crappy apartment, shovel a crappy meal into his mouth and ask himself in all seriousness if modern society allowed a man some way of preserving his human dignity. A rich and complex internal discussion would follow, finally terminating at the familiar conclusion: No. No, it did not. And at those times, thank the heavens, a wet, brown nose would prod itself against his hand and a warm, furry creature would jump up on his knees, doing its best to run a rough tongue across every inch of his face. His golden retriever, Sir George, would have sensed the bleeding of his master''s soul and roused himself from the perpetual nap to succor his lord. Bob would throw up his hands and acknowledge melancholy defeated. It was hard to argue with a dog. Weary after long struggles, Bob would shelter in the last refuge of the strong, that final beacon of hope and joy, that lighthouse on the far horizon with its beckoning, golden flames: litrpg. Bob would sink into a hot bath''s inviting embrace, crack open the latest novel and lose himself in a world beyond his own. You know the life of the everyman. The grand struggle against The Crush. The story so universal and everlasting that it is never told and never shall be. So, would someone care to explain how our everyman, Robert Brown, ended up here: standing at the edge of a forest as twilight deepened and rain sheeted down, the system-anointed Heaven''s Fool, wearing a mantle of living mud, the bodies of three dead men he''d killed six feet under, a dog on his right side barking his head off and a beautiful woman lying on the ground cursing his immortal soul. While there, in the distance, a giant slime monster sailed towards his position and hosts of badger-sized, horned beetles scattered in every direction. Honestly a two word summary would be really helpful. Because there must be a hell of story in there somewhere, something with a moral, and a few strong themes, and a good dollop of character growth. Maybe Bob would look for them once he found the time to relax and introspect. But Bob aren''t you forgetting something? Probably. What level are you on? "@#$% ^&*() !!## @@!! %%^^ &&." Bob shook his fist at the sky. "Why... !!@@##$$ ^^&& (]]**!" %$%$" Were those real words? Bob panted, hands on his knees. He was a gentleman. He''d spoken his truth. He''d said his piece. Sophie looked up from the ground with a mixture of horror and respect. Bob nodded at her and flashed her a roguish smile. She turned her head away and tried to hide blushing cheeks. What could he say? He appreciated a women who could appreciate a choice sequence of swear words. What level was Bob? What level was Bob? Only level 9.99. Why don''t you just round that up to ten? You... You making fun of me? You want to go? I just killed three men in cold blood. You think I won''t. Bob had been sitting at level 9.99 for the past hour or so. He''d killed numerous monsters and three sentients and nothing had moved the dial. The whole while he''d been being jerked around by a sick system that wouldn''t stop laughing at him. And now the answer appeared, divine inspiration in globular form:
Der Glibbermeister (level 10)
You want to be level 10? Why didn''t you say so? All you have to do is kill a level 10 monster. Obvious as pie. You really needed someone to explain that to you? Strength in the interverse is a zero-sum game. You want something somebody else has. Well take it from them. And so the gargantuan slime approached. It was first time Bob had set his eyes on a level 10 monster. Level 10, Rank D, an evolved monster. He''d faced his share of enemies. He''d battled the whole creepy-crawler all-star lineup: giant spiders, reaper-insects, unicorn beetles. He''d fought King Arthur, Lord of the Grassland Beetles, Wielder of the Mighty Excaliborn. He''d challenged Arthur to single-combat and emerged victorious. But this... this monstrosity... this Glibbermeister was a creature on a different plain. How would Bob describe Der Glibbermeister? Goo Worm? Blubber Basilisk? The Oozing Death? That doesn''t paint a picture for you? Okay, listen up. Are you listening? Good. So imagine a long, roughly cylindrical body, divided into segments (a worm''s probably your best comparison). Except with a three meter diameter and fifty meters long. No eyes, no mouth, no visible internal organs. The whole body is a neon-green goop that emits a ghostly luminosity like some creature of the deep sea. Der Glibbermeister had just launched itself off the nearest hilltop. Time seemed to freeze as the animal floated through the air, a magnificent, green blur, like the aurora had solidified into jello. The worm crested, gracefully arching and then it savaged down, straight into the midst of the beetle procession. "No," Bob called out, but it was too late. The core group, the captain and his chosen litter-bearers, couldn''t get out of the way in time. The slime splashed down, breaking apart and coming over them as a great, green wave. "Arthur!" His friend, his noble battle-companion, King Arthur, lord of the grasslands, arrayed in state, surrounded by his honor guard, on the slow road to his final resting place, was swept under the green sea and melted away. Bob watched in horror. The slime goo was some manner of deadly acid. Everything it made contact with dissolved in a hiss of rancid steam. Bob watched as the bravest and noblest sons of the emerald city went up in smoke. And it was not only the beetles, the grass, the flowers of the grass, the little saplings, the shrubbery, all evaporated in a hiss and crackle, melted down into their base components and diffused across the monster. The monster was destruction incarnate. Its wake was a black line of devastation painted across the green and peaceful landscape (sound familiar?).The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. But wait, the monster was a puddle of formless acid, without shape or coherence. Maybe it had destroyed itself by that reckless jump? The general of excellence chooses the site and character of his battleground. A wise general can defeat his enemy using only the landscape. Bob looked at George. "You saw what I did there." And then, of course, the slime started to reassemble; the green tide swept up and the scattered waves were pulled back. The green worm rebuilt itself up like an ice cube melting out in reverse, piling goo on goo and freezing it into position. The Blubber Basilisk started oozing forward. How did it move? Its movement pattern was rather hypnotic. It sort of shuffled forward, in these wobbling, jiggling strides, like a wave propagating at quarter-speed. Don''t ask me how, but something like surface tension kept the slime juice from spilling outside the creature''s form. It didn''t start fast. The head had to sit and wait for the wave to roll up the fifty meters from the tail. Picture a slime glacier falling towards you. You''re afraid for your life and paradoxically you''re sort of bored. But even as Bob watched, the creature began to speed up, slowly mind; it had some trick for stacking momentum, starting a new wave before the last one had finished, so that gradually there were more and more of them. It ticked forward, directing itself bang on their position and nothing seemed able to hinder it. Stones, water, dirt, other inorganic objects floated unharmed through the slime and were gently ejected out its side or back. Its advance had a sense of inevitability to it. The monster shuddered forward in a straight, unflinching line, displacing any geography that happened to interrupt its passage. It was coming for them. Bob was terrified. And then he was angry. And then he grew a little impatient. Truly Death approaches at his own leisure and on his own time. And then Bob remembered he''d dropped Sophie, whoops, and he was suddenly afraid again. It hadn''t been anything personal, just a natural human reaction to the sudden shock. She''d see past that right? She was a woman who could acknowledge extenuating circumstance. Surely she couldn''t hold a small thing like that against him. He crouched down and stretched out a hand to her, a sorry-about-that half-grin on his face. She slapped his hand away. So she hadn''t forgiven him then. Instead she shimmed up to her feet using a tree for support. She continued to hold on to the tree, even after making it to her feet, obviously not quite trusting her balance. "Sophie, I''m sorry. It was a honest mistake." Sophie scoffed and refused to look at him. "Sophie, look, I didn''t mean it. It just happened. You can see that, can''t you?" Sophie scoffed and refused to look at him. "Sophie we''ve been through so much together. We can''t let a little thing like this get in the way." Sophie scoffed and refused to look at him. "Come on, Soph. How can I make things right? There must be something I could do." Sophie scoffed and refused to look at him. "Fine, fine. I''m an awful, loathsome man who pretends to save women, only so that I can drop them on the ground later. You must hate me already." Sophie scoffed and refused to look at him. "I get it. Loud and clear. George and I will just bugger off then. That''s what you want, right. Message received. Won''t bother the princess any longer. You''re welcome." Sophie squeaked and looked pleadingly at him. Bob didn''t notice. He was grumbling to himself as he gathering up his possessions. "George, let''s go. The lady doesn''t want us around any more." George whined. "You said it boy. Well Sophie, sayonara." "Wait." "What do you want now? I don''t understand you. I try to apologise and you get angry. I try to leave you in peace and now you stop me." Sophie motioned at the giant, slime monster. "Oh," the monster was moving so slowly that Bob had honestly half-forgotten about it. You just can''t keep up a state of peak fearful awareness for that long. That monster couldn''t catch a damn fly. At least not if the fly paid proper attention. "Well what do you want me to do about it?" "Robert, I thought, maybe, as a special favor to me, you might get rid of it. You see, I suspect, it may be coming after me. "Yeah, I know. That weird bottle trick of yours. Neat stuff. Well so just turn it off." "Robert," you could tell she was having really hard time not tongue-lashing him for his series of stupid questions. Was Bob taking advantage of that to ask increasingly inane questions? Nobody could prove anything. "You don''t understand, Robert. I am at fault. I should have explained. I have closed the bottle. But I can''t exactly capture the fragrance that''s already in the air." Bob nodded sagely. "So you can''t stop it coming here?" "You understand." "And you can''t get away." "I''m weak and injured. I can barely stand." Bob''s face lit up with an all-together too happy grin. He squared his shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. "Sophie I just want to make sure I''ve understood you exactly. You know, that we''re on the same page here. Now what you trying to say, in your roundabout, oblique way, is: ''please Robert protect me from the scary monster.'' Am I on the nail?" Sophie''s eyes narrowed. Bob got the sense that she was silently grinding her teeth together. After a moment''s pause, she nodded imperceptibly, like the slightest, most minuscule tilt of the head. "Sorry didn''t quite catch that. I''m a dumb brute, uncultured, you know. I think I''m going need you to spell it out for me." Sophie folded her arms and glared openly at him. "You are going to make me say it." "Say what?" "You will regret this." "Regret what?" Sophie clicked her tongue. Was Bob trading a momentary victory for eternal enmity? Maybe. Some victories are worth great sacrifice. If only she''d forgiven him for dropping her, they never would have reached this point. She waited, hoping he was a better men than he was. She waited in vain. Finally she resolved herself: "Robert would you please protect me from the scary monster?" "Of course princess. Of course. Why didn''t you say so? I''d never abandon an injured person to the clutches of an evil slime monster." "Thank, you, kindly." Sophie squeezed the words out of the thin line that was her lips. "Don''t mention it. Don''t mention it." Bob patted her on shoulder. "Leave it all to big, strong Robert." Sophie shook her head and bit her lip (was that blood?) as you tried her darnedest to swallow back the biting remark that she obviously wanted to say very much. "George, time to be a hero." Bk 2 Chapter 2 - Very Effective Dun, Dun, Dun-Dun... Dun, Dun, Dun-Dun-Dun... Dun, Dun, Dun-Dun-Dun, Dun-Dun-Dun, DUN-DUN-DUN... Bob hummed himself a little theme tune as he strode off to face the monster of legend. George got into it, adding a barking backtrack that really dialed up the tension. It''s boring fighting in silence. Every good fight has a soundtrack. From the corner of his eye, Bob thought he made out Sophie shaking her head and muttering something. He''d really shattered his image with her. He should have kept playing that cool, dark, mildly sinister mud magician character he had going. Instead, he''d made the beginner mistake of being himself. Amateur hour. You should always pretend to be somebody you''re not. Oh well, he''d just have to redeem himself in this fight. Put on a good show and all. Now to business. How were you supposed to fight a slime again. Bob opened the Encyclopedia Animetica. He kept it in memory at all times as a quick reference for post-integration bullshit. Slimes, slimes, here it is, Bob found the entry. Bob skimmed through the entry. Amorphous, gelatinous creatures that can change their shape at will, yes, yes, commonly blue or green and mildly translucent, yes, yes, non-intelligent, generally considered low-level, starter zone monsters, yes, yes, resilient against physical attacks, except those directed against its core. Bob closed the mental encyclopedia triumphant. The answer was always there. Anime instructs and the impressionable young man obeys. A core. Slimes are supposed to have some kind of "core" that houses the operational trinity, heart-brain-soul. Destroy the core and the slime will puddle into inert goo. This was going to be easy. He''d find the core, shatter it with a pin-point mud dart and then march back to Sophie, where he''d be oohed and aahed for his heroic performance. All in a day''s work. Bob examined the slime, combing through the enormous body, looking for the tell-told red gemstone. The slime was the most prominent light source in the area so it wasn''t particularly difficult to see inside the creature. Bob checked. He double checked. He checked the check. He checked the double-check. He checked the check of the check. He checked... You get the idea. No core-like objects identified. Bob stroked his beard-fluff. A slime without a core? He shook his head. No, no, he wouldn''t accept it; it was impossible; it would overturn generations of well-established anime tradition. It would be an insult to an entire genre. A disgrace. A slime had to have a core. It didn''t make sense. It was implausible. Even fantasy has to make sense doesn''t it? But why did a slime need a core again? You know. Don''t make me explain it to you. It''s their brain or something. Do I look like a biologist. Jellyfish don''t have brains. Actually, wait a moment, why on earth would a creature have such an obvious and exploitable weakness? Would evolution ever design such a death-star-like creature? I''m indestructible, except, well, don''t poke right here okay. Why not? Well, if you poke right there, promise me you won''t? I won''t. Well I''ll just sort of fall apart. Poke! Not so indestructible after all, ha ha ha.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Well this new development had stymied Bob. He hadn''t prepared himself for a world where anime logic couldn''t be applied one-for-one to combat situations. No core meant no obvious weak point, meant a long and arduous contest with the slime river. Bob looked at Harry, his semi-sentient mud cloak, that could change form and solidity at will. Bob looked at his dagger, the last shard of Excaliborn (a ten inch spike of white horn). Bob looked at the amorphous, gelatinous monster immune to physical attacks. What was he supposed to do now? His attacks would do jack shit. Why had he agreed to face this monstrosity again? And actually the slime was rather close now. It had picked up speed. It was traveling rather fast. Bob regretted making fun of its snailish pace. It was steaming towards him. It was speeding at him. It was like a freight train. The constant waves made its skin froth and rage; a pocket storm of deadly acid was charging at him. Bob wasn''t sure he could get out of the way in time. Shit he wasn''t going to be able to get away in time. What''s the steering like on giant goo worms? Can they make sharp turns? Act now, think later. Bob picked up George and barreled off to the side. At the last second, he dived. It was a close thing. A hair''s breadth. Bob sighed in relief. He and George had cleared the slime train. They were safely off to the side. Thankfully the monster had decided to basically ignore them and just continue on in a straight line. "Stupid slime, take that non-intelligent life form. We''re all the way over here." Bob stuck out his tongue and gloated. The monster ignored him, continuing on in a straight line. In a straight line to... Bob groaned. You know, that spot, where Sophie was leaning against a tree, incapacitated and unable to get out of the way. "I thought slime didn''t have brains. Then how come it''s so fricking intelligent." Outwitted by a slime. That''s the kind of failure they write on your gravestone. There would be no oohing and aahing for Bob today. There would be no delightful gratitude or coos of "my hero." If they both made it out here, Sophie would probably be giving him a piece of her mind. Ok, Bob redeem yourself. "Mud dart." The Harry-coated Excaliborn missiled into the slime''s torso; it stabbed deeper and deeper and then burst out the other side. Bob had put a hole in the creature. "Take that," he shouted. The goo knitted itself together, filling in the vacuum in less than two seconds. No visible damage. At least Harry seemed to be immune to acidic goop and had gotten out unharmed. Destroying his own companion object would have been really embarrassing. "Harry, return." The cloak-dart weapon zipped back to Bob''s side. "I choose you. Go get ''em George!" The dog bounded forward, barking playfully and looking back for further instructions. Bob pointed at the comically large wall of green slime. "George, use flamethrower." The dog barked his assent ("George, George") and unleashed the full fury of a fire-type golden retriever. Hellfire exploded into the Glibbermeister. Unbelievable! It''s a direct hit! The Glibbermeister won''t be enjoying itself right now. But wait, will you look at that folks, it doesn''t seem to have had much effect... Yes, it''s clear now! That attack was NOT very effective! A tough spot for trainer Bob. What will trainer Bob do next? Bob thought the commentator was overstating things. The fire breath had had a dramatic effect. Yes Bob had hoped the liquid goop was flammable and the whole monster would detonate in one glorious firework that would light up the heavens themselves. That hadn''t happened, but a good thousand liters of the slime''s biomass had been instantly vaporized. Bob had had to step back and cover his mouth as the toxic stuff billowed up into the atmosphere. But, you know, the slime was a mobile lake, it could drop a thousand liters here and there and not even look worried. "George, return." The dog obediently trotted to Bob''s side. So much for team Brown''s offensive capabilities. The slime was spiraling forward. It had reached the edge of forest. It was chomping through full-grown trees like they were sponge cake. The thick trunks incinerated as soon as the goo touched them and their canopies tumbled down suddenly foundation-less. Sophie didn''t have much time. She''d been hobbling along as best as she could, struggling to put as much distance as she could between them. She''d gotten surprisingly far. It was almost like she''d started moving the moment Bob turned his back. Had the woman been trying to pull a fast one? Oh ye of little faith. Bob was a creative genius. He had a plan to save Sophie. What, you doubted our hero? You thought he was just taking the piss. No, when had Bob ever let down his friends and family? Ok scratch that. When had Bob ever let down his friends? Never. He had had a plan from the very beginning. It had snapped into his mind like that. The problem was, he knew Sophie wouldn''t approve of his plan. He knew she was positively hate it. He knew it would crater their blossoming relationship and make her revile his form and powers. The things we do for those we love. "Mudfall!" Bk 2 Chapter 3 - The Green Jelly Void One moment Sophie was hobbling along, she was glancing nervously back at the slime gaining rapidly on her, she was hissing something to herself, probably asking what crimes against the heavens she''d committed to be thrown in with this clown and his dog; I''ll protect you he said, leave it to me, time to be a hero... Bob really had gone out of his way to set himself up, hadn''t he? The slime was gaining on her. You don''t outrun the tsunami; the tsunami outruns you. But she was trying all the same. She was a survivor. She''d do anything¡ª100%, 110%, 120%. She wouldn''t stop; she''d keep fighting. She tripped... So much for trying. It was over. It was over. Bob watched as she looked back, her eyes widening at the slime''s yawning form, and then, and then, she was gone... The mud had gotten her. The mud that comes for us all. Out of the mud wast thou taken, and unto the mud shalt thou return. Sophie had returned to the mud. She had mud in her hair. She had mud on her face. Her white summer dress was splattered with the mud. There was mud on the inside of her dress, swept up somehow as she''d fallen down. She had mud on her eyebrows. She had mud in her armpits. The sky was mud. The moon was mud. The stars were mud. The air itself was mud. There''s a profound question that every man and woman must ask themselves at one point or another. What level of indignity is your life worth? Dignity or life? Sophie was asking herself that question now. All of this and more came palpably across in Bob''s mud sense. He was really improving his perception. Fine work Bob. It''s incredible just how clearly he could feel her horror and disgust as she struggled against the mud. Would she be able to figure out that it was he who had done this to her? Maybe Bob would tell her mud manipulation was the dog''s power. He''d say he had some kind of super intelligence. That''s it. He could predict the future. It was plausible because he always came up with such great plans. The slime rumbled over Sophie''s position. She should have been flattened, liquified, vaporized, reduced down to black smoke and chemical formulas, but instead she was tucked away safe and sound, wrapped in the warm, wet embrace of the mud. The Brown element, inorganic and water-saturated, kept back the poisonous goo as it tried to seep down on top of her. The mud protected her. Three cheers for the mud. The slime rumbled past Sophie''s position. She was free, safe. Bob had saved her. Bob was a hero. Talk about a good plan. Bob would quickly extract her and then they could reassess. She''d be out in no time. Bob frowned. It was a lot harder to extract an object than to plummet one down. Really gravity had been doing most of the work. He''d just been taking credit. And he didn''t exactly have much experience manoeuvring human-sized objects. Especially when they struggled so much. Why was she struggling like that? Couldn''t she see he was trying to help her? Still he''d get her out eventually, it would just take a little while and burn a good piece of mana. However, our slimy friend, despite lacking eyes, nose or brain, had somehow realized that it had missed its prey. It started to break hard and then, oh no, reverse. The momentum waves started flowing back in the opposite direction. The slime was coming back. Bob started shoving Sophie back down deeper into the mud. The slime eased itself to a stop. It had parked its massive body directly over Sophie''s position. It seemed to know exactly where she was. Bob was sweating now. Had his plan backfired? He wouldn''t say that. Credit where credit is due. She''d survived the initial attack hadn''t she? That made it a rousing success. No, his mistake was in not having a good, follow-up plan. A good player sees one move ahead. A master sees several. Bob could accept he was only a good player and not a master. Humility. But the consequence of his "good play" was that Sophie was slowly drowning in the mud. Bob was on the verge of murdering the woman he''d just saved. Bob started legging it in Sophie''s direction. "George, what have you got for me boy? Don''t hold back on me now, the good stuff and while we run." Pop. A beetle corpse. Pop. Another beetle corpse. Pop. A third beetle corpse. "The good stuff George." Pop a fourth beetle corpse. Bob should have been clearer. "No more bodies George." If the slime could have been distracted by fresh meat, it would have been distracted long ago; the battlefield was still littered with unburied monster bodies.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. They were running out of time. Sophie looked fit, right? Hell yeah. Shut up, I mean she could hold her breath, right? Not sure. Fingers crossed. At least thirty seconds had passed. George was being markedly and intentionally unhelpful. Was it Bob''s imagination or was George less than eager to save the woman? Usually you couldn''t keep the dog away from strangers. Or maybe it was just his bad habit of not wanting to drop things when asked? Pop. Bob''s camping chair. "I might have wanted to sit in that." Pop, Bob''s toothbrush. "Oi, how''d you even get that?" Pop, Bob''s sleeping bag. "It''s going to get all dirty." Pop, a mud-brick wall that Bob almost ran headfirst into, only dodging at the last second. Pop, a giant, hardened mud ball (Bob had been playing around with the idea of a trebuchet). Bob had to hop up and hurdle the obstacle. Pop, a jar of Raupenflieger pus. Bob just managed to catch it before it smashed onto the ground and splattered them all with the corrosive pus. Close one, that. "Bad dog. Bad dog." Pop, another jar of Raupenflieger pus. "George!" Bob somehow got Harry there in time. He scooped up the jar, depositing it in his hood. Pop. "If this is another jar of pus, George," a burst of cold water nearly knocked Bob clean off his feet. "Dammit, George. Don''t tell me that wasn''t on purpose." Pop. Bob flinched as a frisbee appeared and glided gently down towards his feet. "Wait, George, I never bought you this. Where''d you get this? George, do you have a money supply? Have you been holding out on me? George, we''re going to talk about this later." Pop, a collection of half-eaten chips. Bob took cover behind Harry as the cold, greasy potatoes pinged against his cloak and slid down onto the ground. Slime mountain dead ahead folks. Crap. They''d arrived. They''d arrived with no plan and no weapon. It had taken them a minute, a minute and a half. Bob sure hoped Sophie had a few points in constitution and vitality. Bob needed to do something. Why was he holding this jar of caterpillar pus? He lobbed it at the slime. Now he could think. Bob turned to the dog. "You don''t have a chain sword in there do you?" Boom! Bob was thrown back, splattered against the side of a tree. What the... The jar had sailed through the slime''s body, impacted the ground and shattered. Slime had seeped inside and... What followed was an exothermic, steam-producing chemical reaction spatially bounded by the slime''s biomass. In layman terms: boom! The force of the reaction cratered the landscape, vaporizing a huge chunk of the monster and severing it clean in two. Burning goop rained down in all directions. Bob was dazed. His ears rung. His back ached. He dropped to his feet and almost fell down, the world spinning mercilessly around him. He made out a puddle of inert goo, pooling around the crater. Had he killed it? Had he killed Der Glibbermeister with sheer luck and the bodily fluids of the weakest grassland animal? Nope. The smaller half of the divided slime had lost cohesion and sentience, but the larger half remained well-defined and alarmingly mobile. It locked onto Bob as public enemy number one. The mass of green slime started rolling side-on towards Bob, completely unfazed by gentlemanly distinctions between forward, backwards and to the side. Bob stumbled. He looked back. Shit, shit, shit. But the slime was a slow-burn runner. It had to build up its momentum. George was nearby. He''d thrown up a brick wall at the last second. Somebody, at least, had been paying attention. That wall had probably saved Bob. Given how close he''d been standing to the blast zone, he probably ought to be steam. Bob scrambled up. He turned to run, but Sophie was back there. His mind whirled, and he arrived at the only feasible solution. Bob eyed his dog. "George, I need you to rescue Sophie." The dog didn''t bark back. "George, I''m asking you." The dog whined. "Thank you." Bob transferred the remaining pus jar to the crook of his good arm. He swept off Harry and slide the cloak under George. "You ready? Three, two, one." Harry slingshotted George into the air. George was flying. But dogs aren''t made to be airborne. George''s fur blew up into his face, completely obscuring his vision, as he paddled his legs like he were trying to swim. He''d cleared three meters. He was going to make it. He wasn''t going to make it. Bob had overestimated the slime''s speed. George was starting to fall. The void of green jelly wobbling beneath him. The green jelly void. Bob cupped his mouth and shouted: "Fire!" Fire savaged down into the wobbling green jelly. The recoil rocketed the dog higher into the air and started him spinning widely. He''d cleared the slime. He was over the monster. He was hurtling towards the ground. He was hurtling fast. "Water bucket!" At the last second, George dumped out the rest of his stored water to cushion impact. The dog landed on his feet. George gave a glorious shake of his golden fur. Water droplets scattered in all directions, shimmering in the green glow and creating a misty halo around the dog. The dog gave out a satisfied snort and trotted off towards Sophie''s position. That dog was some hot shit. Bob watched as George stripped away the mud in large invisible bites, eating his way down one pop at a time. Bob really needed to stop thinking of that backpack as little more than a stylish inventory. Bob saw a muddied head appear and heard a sharp intake of breath. "Robert!" Look at that, she''d been thinking about him. Bk 2 Chapter 4 - General Slime Sophie had been baptized in mud. Arise now: Sophie Brown. Odds on, she''d develop a severe and crippling form of mud-specific mysophobia. She was gasping for air, crawling inelegantly across the ground, dripping down wet mud. That''s it. She reminded Bob of a slug. That sticky, wriggling movement. Bob made a point not to tell her that in the future. They''d done it. She might be traumatized, psychologically scarred, permanently damaged, but she was safe; she''d made it out alive. George was there to protect her and General Slime had suddenly remembered a pressing appointment with one Mr. Brown. Yes, General Slime was a respectable, green-suited businessman and he was running a little late. But General Slime was determined to make it to his appointment on time. There is nothing like unpunctuality to make a poor impression on potential business partners. General Slime rushed to the meeting. But strangely enough, Mr. Brown, appeared to be legging it in the other direction as fast as he could. General Slime stretched out a dripping, gooey hand without slowing down. Inexplicably Mr. Brown refused to take the proffered handshake. Most rude. Yes Bob was sprinting. Sprinting for his life. He''d started well, opening up the distance between himself and the Green Death, but the slime rolled inexorably after, like some giant''s rolling pin. And because the slime was approaching side-on, he couldn''t escape to either side. He had no choice but to run away in a straight line and the slime was picking up speed. The perpetual momentum machine thrummed, stacking wave after wave after wave, accelerating in a way completely beyond that of us limited organic organisms. Should Bob take to the mud? When a two dimensional battlefield fails you, add another dimension. That was his trump card. His escape pod. But he couldn''t use it willy-nilly. He wasn''t fighting alone. He had to make sure he''d gotten the slime far enough away from the others first. Otherwise the Glibbermeister would just reverse directions and meatloaf his friends. And hey, he still had one jar of caterpillar pus left. Nothing like a massive bomb to inspire delusions of security. He''d have to time this just right. Bob didn''t quite understand the principle, but isolated goop was just that, goop. The severed section of the slime body had lost animation. In other words, a certain volume of slime was required for the slime to preserve its sentience. That meant if he could nail the slime bang in the centre and halve its volume, he might be able to kill the monster. Cores were a lot easy to understand... Bob veered right, running parallel to the rolling pin. He was riding the storm, surfing in the shadow of the great wave. There was still a good forty meters of slime left to the creature. "General Slime, I''ve brought a little gift for you. It''s an expression of my heartfelt wish that this be the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership." Wait for it. "NOT!" Bob launched the jar into the air. Sometimes he was an absolute badass. Did Sophie see that? He hoped she caught the show. The jar spiraled through the air. Now Bob had never been a very good shot. Pebbles, knives, jars. They never went where they were supposed. Maybe he should practice. It''s boring though isn''t it? Practicing throwing things by yourself. And yet somehow his life frequently depended on throwing things just right. Answer honestly: you thought he''d missed didn''t you? He hadn''t missed. Give the man a little credit. It was impossible to miss. The thing was a fricking wall. Three meters high, forty meters across, two meters away. Boom! A huge chunk of the slime was sliced away and fell lifeless to the ground. He hadn''t missed, but he hadn''t hit centre. He carved out fifteen meters of the goop, but twenty-five more still hounded after him. General Slime was coming in for a hug. Scratch that. He wasn''t coming at Bob at all, he was flying towards him. Somehow the slime had channeled the explosive energy to launch itself into the air and at Bob. Bob was a highly trained wizard. He''d seen tens of combat situations. He was a lightning draw. He reacted instantaneously. "Mud--"
Everything was dark. What had happened? Where was he? He felt foggily back. General Slime and his sweaty, green shirt. The slime must have reached him. He''d been too slow. He hadn''t made it. He was gaseous particles and molecular paste. Is this what it''s like to be a chemical molecule? CO?, brother, why you got to be making things so hot? Someone just needed to level with the guy. Bob would sort things out.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. So Bob was dead. Dead, dead. Not the soap opera dead, where nobody actually saw the death and it was just strongly implied by circumstance and musical tone. No, the see-that-smear-of-liquid-on-the-ground-that''s-all-that''s-left dead. Subjectively, though, Bob felt he was floating, bobbing up and down on a soft cloud. Dead and floating on sunshine? This must be heaven. The only fitting place for a hero of Bob''s quality. To the virtuous, the rewards of their virtue. Thank the heavens. Bob was greatly relieved that God didn''t place any particular value on the lives of beetles. For otherwise, he''d have ended up somewhere a lot less pleasant. It was nice, cozy; the gentle, rocking motion of the clouds was incredibly soothing. It was a bit dark though. Why''s it so dark? Is it raining or something? Does it rain in heaven? Call me prejudice, but I''d sort of imagined heaven to be a bit... well, lighter, airier. It''s a tad stuffy, don''t you think? And what''s that smell? It smells like mud. Don''t tell there''s mud in heaven? Even dying isn''t enough to get the smell of mud off me. Bob''s chest hurt. It started as a dull ache, but was tiptoeing up the pain scale at an alarming pace. He tried to breathe. He couldn''t. There was no air. He was drowning. He was drowning in heaven? What a way to go? Does heaven have a heaven do you think? He tried to push out against the blackness around him. But he couldn''t, it was like the blackness was surrounding him, like he was trying to push against his own clothes, like someone had wrapped him up in a black sheet. "Hello Harry." Bob had been too slow. Harry had been just fast enough. Bob was inside the slime and heaven was somewhere far, far away. He was floating in a sea of corrosive acid, wrapped up from head to foot in his mud mantle. He was the mud mummy. And unfortunately, they''d buried him alive. He was drowning in the mud. A taste of his own medicine. So this is what it feels like? Bob carefully pushed out on Harry with his mind. A mud antenna probed forward, slowly extending as it twitched forward, searching for the boundary of the slime. Pop. Bob felt the shift in surface tension as the antenna penetrated into clean air. He hollowed out the tube and air whistled down. Sweet, restorative oxygen. The fuel of the life. Bob gulped greedily down. He grinned to himself. The mud magician wasn''t finished just yet. Soap opera death resurrection complete. Mr. Brown had an appointment with General Slime. The first thing he needed to do was gain some visibility. He delicately shaved away at the mud that covered his eyes. It was a ticklish operation. If he went too far, slime acid would pour into his eyes and melt away his eyeballs, so you appreciate the need for caution. Bob had never had to cultivate this level of control before. He took his time. The slow swaying of the slime was soothing. It helped him concentrate. He was in the zone, scratching away sub-millimeter layer after layer of mud. Light trickled in, dirty and veiled, like you might see through closed eyelids. He kept going. The layer of mud was now imperceptibly thin. A fraction of a millimeter wide. He couldn''t shave away any more without the acid spilling through. And yet he still couldn''t see. That paper-thin layer remained opaque. He''d reached an impasse. Maybe mud googles were impossible. Magic can''t reach beyond a mage''s understanding. Bob had to be able to conceive of the method to realise his objective. Bob frowned. He concentrated on the mud of Harry''s cloak. He really concentrated. He closed his eyes and let his consciousness sink into the mud. Mud is a composite; varied particles floating in a watery stasis. And those particles aren''t arranged in a strict, regular pattern. It''s no crystal, no diamond or graphite. They are randomly distributed and they aren''t all the same size. They are a mixture, a jumble of distinct elements. There was sand and gravel, trace mineral components, silt, and then clay. Bob focused on the clay. Clay was the smallest, tiny specs of substance, so small they tended to bind together and form little aggregates. Bob had never tried to influence the internals of the mud before, but he tried now. He imagined a comb with microscopic teeth. He brushed the comb through the mud, one slow stroke at a time, herding the bigger particles away. Where did mud end and water begin? At one point would the system say, "that there is just water" and revoke his authority? Bob didn''t worry about that. He let the thought float up and drift out of his mind. He was reaching for Zen state of the experience factory. That empty doing. It was an arduous process. He had to keep hold of that image in his mind. That microscopic comb. Each pass, he would sweep away hundreds of particles, but there were thousands more, ten of thousands. Sometimes he would lose it and he''d have to reconstruct the comb, reground himself in that microscopic mud. He repeated that action hundreds and hundreds of times, refining his form, simplifying his movements, pacing up again and again. He was making progress. All of the sand was gone, the gravel too; some of the silt had merged onto the little clay stars and he had to pick them apart, sliding a tooth of the comb between them. He didn''t look. He didn''t worry about progress, about how far he''d come. He didn''t want to be distracted. If you do a job properly, the results will come of themselves. He remembered those QA flows. He would glide from step to step like someone was guiding his hand and he was just the instrument. Bob felt sweat rolling down his face, even with his eyes closed. He felt sweat roll down into his mouth and he tasted the salt of his own effort. He didn''t break focus, but a remembered phrase bubbled up all the same. What had old Yamada-sensei said? Sweat makes the man. Bob sweat. Bk 2 Chapter 5 - The Green Tide Bob opened his eyes. He hadn''t gotten bored. He hadn''t lost focus. He left the meditative state freely of his own will. There was nothing left to do. The mud around his eyes was pure and clean. Only the faintest particles of clay drifting through crystal water. He''d even taken the time to pick apart at the clay aggregates, splitting them up into their component pieces. The work was over. Bob opened his eyes and saw. It was a little strange. Like he was looking through a veil of tinted glass. There was the faintest hint of a distortion as light refracted, but it was almost imperceptible. Bob opened his eyes and saw George, George and Sophie. They were standing on the top of a precarious tower, surrounded by luminous green slime. The monster was reforming itself slowly, stacking goo on goo, towering up with the inevitability of the rising tide. Thank god they were okay. Bob had wondered about trying to break out of the slime before regaining his vision. There were risks involved. He''d probably have had to retract his breathing tube. And he wouldn''t have know what direction to swim in. It''s possible he might have ended up swimming in circles or that some vigorous motion might have let acid seep through the thin, mud shield. He still might have risked it if he''d had some quick way of damaging the slime. He didn''t. Sophie was shouting something. She looked panicked and harried. Being painted with mud does that to a human. Somehow it destroys your creditability. People immediately assume the worst (Bob spoke from experience). Maybe she was giving on-point, result-focused instructions in deliberate, commanding tones, but to Bob''s eyes, she just looked like she was screaming her head off. George, on the other hand, was his natural cool-cucumber self. Hell the dog looked like he was enjoying himself. The noise, the pretty lights, the excitement, he probably was. George barked and wagged his tail and trotted happily around. Why did Bob get the impression Sophie wasn''t a dog person? Bob could help smiling at the dog a little from here. Sophie was not smiling. Sophie''s expression was flint. Gurgle, gurgle, the slime tide rose inexorably higher, gurgle, gurgle. George popped out two mud-brick walls on top of their platform and then a horizontal roof piece. Good old George, hoarder that he was, he must have stored away every one of Bob''s brick-wall attempts. And there had been a lot. Bob had been experimenting with different shapes, thicknesses and material composition. You know, magical QA at its best. Next came a little mud brick staircase, five rough steps of hardened mud. Bob had forgotten about that. It was one of Bob''s prepared siege equipment. He''d shaped it in a flight of fantasy. Imagine, if you will, a grand enemy stronghold, the emerald city of the unicorn beetles. The invader strolls up to the wall, plops down a staircase from thin air and then wanders up. Hello everyone. How we all doing? Of course it had never seen the light of day. The walls were made of grass. George could breathe fire. You do the maths. George and Sophie scrambled up onto the next level and, pop, George had stored away the staircase again for future use. It was a damn good plan. Bob was impressed. George really was a sharp thinker. He grown so much during the initiation. Or maybe he''d always been intelligent and just played dumb in front of Bob? The dog did tend to get exactly what he wanted. But that was probably just Bob''s soft heart. It was a good plan. A plan that depended on the noble, stoic nature of mud. Mud was a pure inorganic substance, so the slime couldn''t just dissolve through it. Nor would Brown Corporation''s signature mud-brick walls, thick, heavy and beetle-horn proof, be easily toppled over. Instead the slime had no choice but to slowly elongate itself and chase them up into the sky. It was a good plan, but George did not have twenty five meters worth of wall. They''d get caught eventually. Sophie continued to shout at George, motioning higher. She probably didn''t appreciate the way George liked to leave things to the last second. George flattened his ears, blinked slowly. George, George, (Bob couldn''t keep back a little chuckle) George yawned. He lay down and rested his head in his paws. Sophie was stamping her foot. She didn''t understand dog like Bob did. Bob understood George. George was saying there was nothing more he could do. That must have been George''s last set of walls. When Sophie started pulling on George''s collar, he spat out the staircase again. But no walls followed. Gurgle, gurgle, the slime tide rose inexorably higher. They were trapped. Slime slowly congealed together, stacking on top of itself. Bob found himself caught in the suction effect and pulled inside the green tower. He could feel the currents that facilitated the slime''s movement. Waves would start up from the slime''s feet and slither through the body, guiding dumb goo in the desired direction. Gurgle, gurgle. George stood up and hopped up onto the first step. Sophie was long since at the top. She was pulling her hair out and cursing the dog.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. The slime spilled over the level of the platform. Green goo lapped against the rim of the lowest step. Gurgle, gurgle, the tide continued to rise. George lazily hopped up another step. The tide came after him, washing over the first step, then the second, then the third. The fourth step was swallowed into the green sea. Sophie and George were crowded onto the fifth step. End of the line, folks. Gurgle, gurgle. The tide rose inexorably higher. It was at the brim of the step, wobbling at the edge, only surface tension preventing it from spilling over and onto them. George breathed fire. A thousand liters of slime evaporated in an instance. The slime was pushed back a full step. Sophie was coughing and cursing. She gotten a mouthful of the rancid smoke. That stuff couldn''t meet air quality standards. Bob didn''t think she and George were going to be friends. The slime gathered itself together. What was a thousand liters to the Green Death, to the Slime Sea? George''s mana reserves were finite. He wouldn''t be able to hold back the tide. No king, no god could hold back the tide. The tide comes for us all. Gurgle, gurgle; gurgle, gurgle. The tide rose inexorably higher. George spat out his heavenly flames and the wave was beaten back. Bob had to do something. He was the only one left. He was the mud magician. But what could he do? He was suspended inside the slime. Some mud-fly frozen in green amber. He wasn''t connected to the mud outside. The laws of magic constrained him. He only had his mantle and his wits. How could he overcome the Great Slime, Der Glibbermeister, a being completely resistant to physical attacks, seemingly immune to everything but caterpillar pus? He was half-way up the slime tower. Seven meters up in the air. There was no getting down or out in time. Once more the wave rose up from the infinite depths of the Slime Sea. Bob felt the current pass through him. The energy propagating forward, compressing the slime and raising it higher. Once more the golden knight forced it back. But the fire was growing weaker. It was hard for George to cast his spell so many times in short succession. The slime only fell back half a step. Once more the wave shuddered up through the Slime Sea. Once more the fire ravaged it back. Only a third of a step this time. Already the wave had come back, pressing on the island shores. One last rattling breath of flames. Only a quarter-step. The green tide and the golden knight. Bob felt the wave shiver up from the depths. This was it, the final push, the current that would sweep over the last step and sink them into the sea. Bob acted. Harry thinned and extended out like a great sail. The wave reached the cloak, but the cloak stayed rigid, resisting the motion. Bob caught the wave. He held it. He pushed it back. The wave faltered, its energy dampened, but it stumbled past all the same, seeping around the edges of the wave-breaker. Crap. Gurgle, gurgle, the voice of the green tide as it rises inexorably higher. The tide prodded against the step''s lip, bouncing forward and then wobbling back, stopped by the faintest hint of surface tension. Sophie was weeping, calling on her maker for mercy, confessing her sins. George yawned and nuzzled over to the crying woman. She didn''t seem to appreciate the concern. Bob felt a wave shiver up from the depths. He braced himself. He readied himself. He had to hold the line here. He was the final defense. The hooded man and the sea. The wave shoved up. Bob seized it, pushing Harry out as far as he could. They wrestled together, battling for accession, writhing and twisting against each other. The wave died. But in its death, it tripped forward as faint ripples. Crap, crap. Gurgle, gurgle. The ripples reached the green boundary. And the surface tension broke. A breath of green slime washed across the step. George jumped. Sophie hopped. And like some awful game of dead man¡¯s jump rope, the acid swept under them and drained back into the green sea. They''d... survived? Though Sophie''s nice shoes were smoking. She''d mistimed her jump. Bob was defeating the wave. He was an immovable stone, but he wasn''t god. The relentless quality of directed energy could not be so easily quenched. It was impossible to prevent some momentum trickling past, bleeding around the limits of the wave-breaker. He would win the fight and lose the war. In the end, the tide always wins. He''d only bought them time, a few more minutes, a final game of dead man''s jump rope, played until they wore out or fell down or gave up. It was over. Is this the fabled mud magician? Is this it? The wielder of the great mud wave. The heir to Excaliborn. Lord of the golden knight. Defeated by the tide? The humble tide? Must be somebody else. Some pretender. Is this the limit of your strength? The end of your path? Defense, defense, defense. Are you trying to survive or are you trying to conquer? Why don''t you play to win for a change? Bob understood. The world belongs to those who act. This time he didn''t wait for the wave. This time he was the wave. Harry flapped forward, sending out a counter-wave, and then another and then another, a constant beat of force and energy. When the slime''s own wave shivered up from the depths, it was battered, bludgeoned and kicked down by counter-wave after counter-wave. Bob''s wave tore it apart and kept going. Bob''s army of waves collapsed into the base of slime and pulled the creature away from his friends. Gurgle, gurgle. The slime tower slipped down a step. Gurgle, gurgle. Another step and another, down to the platform now. Sophie looked down in wonder. George barked like he''d been expected about as much. "Gurgle, gurgle," Bob shouted out, laughing manically, "gurgle, gurgle." The tide had turned. He was the tide. Bk 2 Chapter 6 - Bobman The Mud Magician forced the slime back, dragging its evil tower down and splattering it on the forest floor. General Slime was on the ropes. The Mud Magician threw him around and pinned him to the ground. General Slime struggled, trying to reassert control, throwing roller after roller into the Mud Magician, but there was no bringing down the great wall of mud. One, two, three. Ring the bell, dammit. Ring, ring, ring. Bob (mentally) thumped his chest and declared his dominance. Swamp of Sorrow! Swamp of Sorrow! The crowd went wild. George barked his head off, and Sophie looked mildly impressed. But this was no exhibition match. This was no mere entertainment. This was a fight to the death, a blood-match, a devouring. General Slime hobbled back up to his feet. The combatants circled each other. General Slime was weary. He looked haggard. His body twitched. Green pus oozed out of his wounds. The Mud Magician was sharp, predatory, waiting for the moment to strike. His eyes burned through his signature mud mask. His cloak billowed around him like black wings. Bob gulped down a breath of air and cut off his breathing tube. Der Glibbermeister was a Rank D monster. A man has to be willing to shoulder the risks. The slime was trying something. A choppy current made to force Bob out of the creature. It came against him suddenly, like a flash flood pushing over the banks of a river. Bob laughed. The mud wings arched back, minimizing drag and beat forward, easily maintaining Bob''s position. It was the last desperate haymaker of the enemy. Bob just stepped back and let the monster totter. Now it was Bob''s turn. Now it was the turn of the mud magician. Bob whirlpooled, spinning his wings around and around, in a dizzying cyclone that churned and churned. Vicious currents rampaged through the slime''s body. The slime frothed and boiled. Energy battered against the layer of surface tension that held the slime together. The boundary buckled. The slime sensed what was coming. The slime sensed what was coming and could do nothing. The monster was powerless. Bob was the power. The boundary cracked and fell apart. The slime exploded. Bob''s centrifugal force ripping it apart and splattering it across the forest. Ping. Bob fell to the ground with all that remained of the inert slime. His wings arched out behind him, like some dark angel as he landed deftly on the ground. "Quagmire Maelstrom," he whispered in his best batman voice and then glanced sidelong to Sophie''s position. What did she think of that? Sophie had missed his epic finisher, his skillful landing, his batman impression. She''d been cowering behind one of the brick walls, trying to avoid getting melted to death by Bob''s acid hurricane. Bob sighed, clicked his tongue, rubbed his eyebrows. Why did she never see him at his best? It was so unfair. You can''t just manufacture these scenes willy-nilly. These are the things you have to be there for. She never believe him if he just told her. After ten seconds of relative calm, Sophie poked her head out. Seeing the slime defeated and Bob standing there alone, triumphant, she double-taked and then gave him a pointed stare. George navigated them both down to the forest floor with his staircase trick, making sure to pick up all the mud walls on the way down. Sophie limped along, dragging her feet; you might have thought she was terribly injured, though Bob couldn''t see a mark on her. Bob stepped away from the pooled sludge and walked towards them, Harry shedding any lingering slime goo from his person. Bob didn''t know what he expected. A warm hug and a heartfelt thank you maybe? A kiss on the cheek? A confession of undying love? All valid and reasonable possibilities. What he hadn''t expected were Sophie''s next words. "Had Robert forgotten his vulnerable companions hiding nearby? One little word of warning. Watch out. Beware. Take cover. Could you not spare Sophie even a little word?" Bob deflated. Is it really worth saving people? There''s no profit in the business. The margins are razor tight. Bob should get out while he still could. Wait, maybe he could salvage the situation. Bob tried to look apologetic. He mumbled out, "I couldn''t. See, I was trapped," he gestured at the slime scattered around (George was hoovering it all up into his satchel), "trapped inside General Slime. No way to get a message out." He shrugged. "General Slime, is that what you call him?" She snickered to herself, but Bob thought she wasn''t laughing at the name, but laughing at him for giving it such a name. "Really no way to get a message out. Is that so?" "Yes, unfortunately." Bob pushed his luck here. "I actually tried shouting something out to you guys, but I guess you didn''t get the memo." "Strange. Curious, no? Because now that I think about, I distinctly heard a voice, and I would have sworn it was your voice. It was shouting something."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Bob felt a beat of his sweat roll down his forehead. "Yes. So you did hear. That was me warning you." "I believe the words were: ''gurgle'', ''gurgle.''" Shit, Bob muttered to himself. Why''d he always get so carried away? Poker face here Bob, Poker face. "I don''t think you heard it quite right. Slime distortion and all. I was saying... ''guard,'' ''guard.'' It was a warning." She crossed her arms and waited. Should Bob come clean? Should you found a relationship on honesty and mutual trust, or on a goo of self-justifying lies? Bob decided to change the subject. "George, good boy, good boy." The dog greeted his master a lot more warmly than Sophie had. The dog snuggled up to the kneeling Bob and started trying to lick away his mud googles. Bob dispelled his mud armor, restoring Harry to his base mantle appearance. "George, you''re the strategist of our group. The big brain. You always make the best plans. And look at you following through on your knightly duties. One damsel in distress saved." "Your dog was most rude." Sophie cut in. "He doesn''t mean anything by it. George''s as sweet as they come." Bob framed George''s face between his two hands. The dog made a silly grin, his red tongue lolling out. "See. He''s all heart. Look try patting him on the head." "I will not." Bob shrugged and patted George on the head. George whined contently. It was so much easier interacting with a dog. "Thank you George." He gave the dog a final pat on the head and stood up. Time for the fireworks. This time for sure. This time the system wouldn''t backstab him with some extra requirement bullshit, some bureaucratic misleading hogwash, some haha-you''re-so-stupid-and-I''m-an-omnipotent-being-so-eat-shit turnabout. Bob fluttered his fingers with anticipation. Here we go. He opened his notifications.
Congratulations: Level up 9 - > 10 Major bonus to luck assigned Rolling for random stats... Random stats determined. Major bonus to intelligence assigned Minor bonus to dexterity assigned Token bonus to wisdom assigned Minor decrease to vitality assigned
Bob fist pumped. He''d finally done it. He, Bob Brown, would save everybody. They will be no recycling on my watch. Throw it all in the landfill, baby. I see you sneaking away that cardboard. Bury it. Bury it with the rest of them. Good. He wouldn''t let the system put its dirty hands on him or George or any other earth sentient for that matter. The message continued:
Evaluating Candidate Potential... Candidate Potential evaluated. Evolution Threshold passed. Evolution Protocol initiated. Would you like to begin the Rank D Evolution Process? Y/N Time Remaining: 00:56:21
Bob''s brow wrinkled. Evolution Process? What was that supposed to mean? And would it hurt? It would definitely hurt wouldn''t it? The system was going to strip him down and remake him. Is there an option for anesthetic? Where did he sign? No option materialized. Oh so, the system was a proponent of "natural" evolutions. How unfortunate. And what was this bloody timer? What would happen if he let it tick out? What he be trapped at Rank E for ever? Would he be knocked down a level? Was it just one of those scarcity marketing tactics to instill a scene of urgency? The MQA part of Bob kinda of wanted to see what would happen. A grand experiment, the first of its kind. And the sane part of him was threatening to mutiny if he had to fight another monstrous slime. Had the world quest already been fulfilled?
Quest: D Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade Time limit - one week Current highest leveled sentient: 10 (E) Remaining Time: 02:12:38 Reward: None Penalty: World Recycling
Fair enough. It did explicitly include the evolve condition. Well nothing to it then boys. All that''s left was to cross the finish line. The world was waiting and watching. As Bob, our little Bob, junior quality assurance engineer of questionable standing, subpar caretaker of animals, and half-hearted messenger correspondent, stood in the world''s spotlight and spoke his piece. "Friends, Romans, Citizens of the Earth, lend me your ears. Rest easy in your hearts. Have no fear." A pause for dramatic effect. "Bobman is here. Your many grumbles and unreasonable complaints have been heard. I have heard them. I have come. Bobman has come." The crowd in Bob''s imagination roared and started to chant the name: "Bobman, Bobman, Bobman." Bob indulgently stretched out a hand and quieted them. "Yes, Bobman is here. Bobman sees you. Bobman hears you. Bobman smells you." He gestured to the splattered remains of the level ten monster. "The Great Enemy, General Slime, who stretched out green, gloopy hands to strangle the world, is no more. He has fallen at Bobman''s feet. I spit on his arrogance." Bob spat on the ground, but he didn''t have the knack for spitting and couldn''t quite get it all out. A long trail hung from his mouth, and he needed several more attempts to complete the action. He wiped his mouth. "Let''s try that again: I spit on his arrogance." He pretended to spit. The crowd started up chanting again. "Citizens of the Earth, you won''t believe me when I say this, but I was once as you." A gasp of shock and horror. "Yes, it''s true. I was weak and powerless. I saw the world quest and said to myself, ''This is someone else''s problem. Someone else will save me.'' I was wrong. Let me tell you now: Don''t live for the hero. Be the hero. The world needs more than one Bobman. The world needs every one of you to be Bobman. You and you and you. I know each of you has the seed of Bobman inside you. Let him grow. Let him grow." "Now, friends, this Bobman will challenge the heavens. This Bobman will seek out the paths of evolution. He shall triumph, and he shall return to you stronger, fairer, and with a real beard. Bobman out." Bob saluted and then stretched out a hand to accept the evolution process. Bk 2 Chapter 7 - Quickmud Someone or something grabbed Bob''s outstretched hand in an iron grip. Who dares impede Bobman on the paths of evolution? He looked down and was surprised to discover it was his own mud cloak. Bob, what you are doing? The rational part of his brain snarled. What does it look like? I''m accepting the system prompt, I''m starting the evolution, I''m ascending rank. Bob, why do you think it''s called an evolution process? The rational brain continued coldly. I''m no etymologist. Don''t ask me stupid questions. Process, Bob, process. What if it doesn''t take place instantaneously. That stumped Bob a little. What will happen to me while it''s going on? I don''t know Bob. You''ll probably be helpless. Maybe unconscious. That doesn''t sound good. Bob looked at his surroundings. It was a battlefield, corpses, blood, acid-burnt trees, churned up mud and rain. Yes it was still raining. Not to mention, a monster-attracting fragrance continued to hover over the area. Should we maybe change locations? He finally got there. You don''t have to be mean about it. Is there anything else? Yes. Sophie! Bob cursed and slapped himself on the forehead. He thought he''d delivered most of his ascension speech mentally, but he might have let slip some gestures and phrases here and there. Had he spit at one point? Why had he spit again? And spit badly at that? That was embarrassing. What had Sophie thought he was up? Still the woman probably had the measure of Bob by now. Nothing could surprise her anymore. That meant things could only get better from here. All the same, Bob vowed to work on his social aptitude stat. He''d gotten so used to being alone or accompanied only by a dog and mud cloak, both of whom were poor conversationalists who would happily follow Bob into whatever sticky situation he was marching towards. He''d completely forgotten that most people needed explanations and reasoning, and they might have different ideas or useful opinions. He had to do better, starting from right now. "Guys, I just hit level 10." He paused for congratulations, but plowed on after a couple seconds of silent waiting, "there''s some kind of evolution process I have to undergo." "Robert, please, are you just going to leave us here?" Bob grimaced. Wow, he actually hadn''t even thought of that. And he probably should have. He''d never been very good at dealing with people. "Of course not. I... but, you see. I don''t think I have much choice. Look there''s a timer attached to the evolution request. One hour and counting. I don''t think we want to find out what''ll happen when it reaches zero." "And how long will this "evolution process" take?" "I... don''t know. But, well, honestly, I get the impression it won''t be quick." "As I feared. You should have left me to die in the mud. Out here I will be torn apart by wild animals." "Hold your horses. George and I have a¡­ base? A town. A safer place, You can buy stuff more cheaply there. And¡­" he hesitated, "I just got a huge cash influx from being first to hit level ten." Look how smoothly he lied. "We can get supplies there, set up camp." Sophie didn''t look reassured. "You don''t have anything to worry about. George will be there to protect you if anything goes pear-shaped. Pardon me. Sir George." Sophie didn''t look reassured. "You know in a straight fight he''s stronger than I am. Point him at your enemy and shout fire. It works maybe fifty-percent of the time. Just keeping shouting fire until he does it. He''s not the best at taking instructions." "I have noticed." Sophie glared at the dog. "That dog would have laid down and died if I hadn''t dragged it with me." Bob raised an eyebrow. Maybe she didn''t know that he''d been able to see them during the fight. Because Bob definitely remembered George saving Sophie. There''s no way Sophie could even have known about the mud walls or the staircase. But Bob decided to turn a blind eye. We all like to imagine our own contributions are what made the difference. Instead he settled on: "You two make a great team." She scoffed, but George looked happy. "Ok, let''s get moving. I''m on a clock here guys." Sophie limped forward, going unnaturally slowly, I mean, a baby would have crawled right past her and doubled back to gloat. "How far is it?" She asked despairingly. That was a good question. Bob wasn''t worried about finding the place. The beetle stampede had left a pretty clear trail and worst case he had access to the settlement tab and could toggle the pylon visibility back on. "Maybe 20-30 minutes walk? Depends on our walking speed..." "I''ll never make it. Leave me here to die." "Oh, yes, sorry, you''re still mana exhausted. Hm..." Bob stroked his beard fluff. "Nothing for it." He bent down and motioned for her to get on his back. "Robert, if you believe for one moment I''m riding on your back, like some child, you are grievously deluded."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Bob tutted. "Walk, ride on my back, or stay here. Your choice." "I will stay." "Dammit Sophie. Fine. Have it your way. George let''s go." Bob started off at a rapid pace and George bounded along beside. Bob determined not to look back. He wouldn''t look back. He was steel. He peeked around. She was standing there with arms folded, watching him go. When she caught him look back, she smiled. She thinks I''m coming back for her, Bob ground his teeth together. Nope, nope, not going back. Bob picked up speed. He was practically running. He must have been a good fifty paces away when he heard her call after him. "Come back. Come back, Robert. I didn''t mean it." Bob turned around and put his hands on his hips. What am I going to do with this woman? What the hell was her end game? He marched back and crouched down. She obediently climbed on. Why couldn''t she just have done that from the start? He lifted her up and started on the way again. The first ten minutes went by in silence, but walking calmed Bob''s nerves and the time helped Sophie recover some of her composure. "Robert, I may have a regained a small piece of my strength. Would you like me to cast a repel over us?" That sounded awfully like a peace offering. Bob had enough grace to accept it. He could be empathetic. Being kidnapped, tied up, then buried alive, then cornered by animated slime, then surviving an acid hurricane, before being told you would have to march through the night to some unnamed spot, could be a little trying on the spirits. He would give her a smidgen of leeway. "You can do that too? How does that fragrance magic of your''s work." "It''s not my magic. My companion object is this bottle of perfume. I don''t quite understand it myself. But I can attract or repel different creatures. I can choose who the fragrance affects. Back there I just made it as strong as I could and to attract everyone and anything. But now I could make it just repel monsters." "That''s awesome. Sounds super useful." "It did not protect me from those men or that slimy thing. It''s less effective than you imagine. If a monster caught sight of us while I had the repel active, it would probably still attack." "You summoned every living creature over a couple kilometers distance. You should have seen the way those beetles reacted." "And look how it drained me. Alone I would have died at once." "You''re not alone anymore, Sophie. You have George." She snorted but Bob caught the amusement. "And I have you, Robert Brown, the first man to reach level 10." "You know, when you put it look that, I almost sound like a hero. Is that how I appear in your eyes." "To my eyes, you appear most muddy." "Look who''s talking." "Ah yes, Robert I had a tiny question on that subject. It was you, was it not?" "Me? Sophie, be reasonable. That was a spot of quickmud. What, you''ve never heard of quickmud? Well you know what quicksand is don''t you? Quicksand actually gets its name from quickmud. Quickmud came first you see. Quickmud''s a real killer. I think it''s pretty bad in Australia. They lose almost a hundred people a year, I hear. Don''t laugh. It can sneak up on you, I''m told. You think you''re on solid ground and then, poof, the mud''s got you." "Robert, it''s almost endearing how convincingly you can prattle on about such nonsense." "Thank you very much. I take great pride in my prattling." "Well, I received this curious achievement. ''Muddy'' is the title. You wouldn''t happen to know anything about it, would you?" "Beats me." "Curious." Sophie shook her head but let the subject drop (thank god). "So your power is controlling the mud? And your companion object?" "You''re under him right now." Bob had generously wrapped Harry around the both of them. This helped secure Sophie while keeping the rain off them both. "Say hello to Harry." "The cloak?" "Yes, that''s right. And what about you then? If your companion is the perfume bottle, what''s your ability." "A woman mustn''t tell these things." "Be fair. I just told you mine, didn''t I? Even Stevens." "Very well. From my savior, Robert Brown, I will hide nothing. I have an identify ability." "Hm..." "If I focus and channel the spell, I can see information about my target. The longer I focus, the more information I get. I can see general descriptions of monster or the basic properties of plants." "What about sentients?" "I see very little I''m afraid. A name and a level. I can''t even see classes." "Well I expect you''ll start to get more information as you level up." "It''s a poor ability. I can''t fight, you see. I spend all my time running away. I''m only level 3 and all that comes from killing those pus caterpillars." "I hate those caterpillars. True, it''s not a combat skill. But I thought mud manipulation wasn''t a combat art either. And it turned out ok. I mean it''s an invaluable skill in a team. Especially if you start being able to see a monster''s weaknesses." "I suppose." Bob snapped his fingers. "Wait so you can see my level right?" "Yes, you are level 10." "And George, what about George?" "The dog is level 9." Bob accosted the dog mid-stride and ruffled his head. "Sir George in the house. You''re level 9. You dog. We''ve got to find you a level 10 monster to kill. You and me, boy." Bob turned back to Sophie. "I can''t wait for you to be able to see classes. I''m dying to know what George''s class is." "What''s your class?" "Do I have to say?" "Is it a secret?" "I mean, no. But it''s embarrassing." "Such powerful abilities must come from a mighty class." Bob actually stopped running to laugh. "Powerful ability. Lady, I can control mud. Mud! That''s got to be the weakest ability out there." "I just saw you decimate three powerful adversaries and then detonate a level ten slime monster." "Those scenes are somewhat cherrypicked. You should have seen me three days ago. I was significantly less impressive." "I can''t tell if you are just being modest." "Me modest? You must be talking about someone else." "Well, will you tell me?" "Fine. But promise you won''t laugh and promise me you''ll tell me your''s in exchange." "I promise." "Heaven''s Fool." She laughed. Bloody women and their promises. They mean less than dirt. "I think it suits you." "You know, somehow, that doesn''t make me happy." "I am The Beautiful Blade." "What? What? How is that fair. That''s straight out of a storybook. Somewhere they must sing stories about The Beautiful Blade." "Am I worthy of being sung about?" "No," Bob answered instantly. He might have been a little annoyed. She pouted at him for not playing along, but Bob was busy giving himself a tension headache. "I bet that damn dog is going to have something epic as well. The Golden Flame. Or Firebringer. Or The Glittering Inferno. Dammit all." Thankfully, at that point, they''d arrived at Earth Settlement 1. Bob marveled at their speed. It couldn''t have taken them more than fifteen minutes. And just how easily he''d piggy-backed a grown woman at a neat jog over several kilometers. Boosted body stats were nothing to scoff. Bob got Sophie set up with a tent and some supplies. She was more than happy to rest. It had been a long day for them all, but especially for Sophie. She''d been through the lion''s den and that wasn''t even counting surviving the post-integration apocalypse on her lonesome. Bob''s gratitude for a stalwart, canine companion had never been higher. For himself, Bob constructed a little mud mausolean. He might have added some artistic flourishing. He''d had extra time. A pediment with a rough sketch of a brown-cloaked wizard facing down an amorphous blob of evil. Dramatic coloring if you will. George baked it all into mud brick with controlled bursts of flame. They would make a killing in the construction industry. There was no entryway. Bob would phase in and out through the soft mud floor. That should keep away any scavengers long enough for him to evolve. This patented mud-brick had kept back a beetle army after all. Bob instructed George to stay with Sophie. His duty was to protect the woman while she recovered. George protested, whining that he wanted to come with Bob. It was only fitting for a knight to stand beside his lord. Somehow George and Sophie had not become friends. Woman to canine was one thing, but even the dog, even old George, usually the spirit of friendly cheerfulness, seemed cool to the woman. Bob himself found her wonderfully attractive, a paradigm of politeness and thoughtfulness. He might have been little bias, who can say. In the end, Bob was the master. He wasn''t about to leave an exhausted Sophie at the mercy of any wandering villain. Bob gave a word of command: "wait!" The dog whined and resisted, but the command held him. Time to be reborn. Bob accepted the system prompt. Bk 2 Chapter 8 - Apocalypse Mud Bob knew this place. It was the system''s waiting room, the holding ground. A dimensionless, void space flooded with white light. This is where the system had formally commended him for his stellar initiation performance. This is where he had been granted his magical, mud-based authority. This is where Harry Mud Cloak had been birthed from the shell of hardened mud off Bob''s own back. Good things happened in this place. Bob rubbed his hands together and looked around him greedily. "What are you waiting for? Bring out the treasure. My rewards. My gifts and congratulations. I would humbly accept a million or two credits. What about mastery of another element, say, fire? Or lightning? Or nuclear energy?"
Evolution Process Initiated: Calculating racial evolution paths... Racial evolution paths calculated.
"Oh shit, I can change race." Was that written somewhere in the fine print? "Yes, yes, I know, I think I should be a high elf too. A race with a measure of inherent nobility and grace. Simply put it captures my true character better than a run-of-the-mill human. Humans are so pedestrian, so average. There are some millions of us wandering around the planet. I need something that will make me stand out. Something with a touch of razzle-dazzle."
Choose Your Race: Human
"Anti-climax much. I thought I already was human." Bob pulled up his status summary:
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 10 (0%) Rank: E Wealth: 4,871,300 credits
"That lesser bullshit again. You''re making fun of me aren''t you? Once a bully, always a bully. And here''s I thought our humanity was granted by birth, an inviolable right of our species. Guess I was wrong. It''s all something a jumped-up computer program arbitrarily determines. Well thank you very much. How happy I am to finally be worthy of becoming an ordinary human. It only took me 24 years." Bob selected "Human".
Race: Human A weak race without noteworthy natural abilities. Tool Reliant. Exhibits a strong tendency to group up and build nests. Invasive species. Will multiply and devastate existing ecosystems. Description: bipedal hairless monkey. Effects:
"I guess that basically sums us up. A few important details omitted though no? Didn''t manage to squeeze in a mention of Mozart, Michelangelo, or the literary giant, Jonny Johnson. Wasn''t enough space. Fair enough. "
Calculating additional class possibilities...
Bob''s eyes bugged open. Additional class possibilities? Now we''re talking. I''m so glad I fought that slime monster. Bob could be free of it, free of it at last. It was a dream he''d never thought possible. A hope beyond hope. He would throw down the name of Heaven''s Fool and take on a new title. Finally, finally, the system had recognized that Bob was a man to be taken seriously and not just looked down on and laughed at. Good, good. Very good. What kind of options would the system offer him? Something magical probably. Something mud themed. Bob was desensitized to mud at this point. He and Harry had a grand history together. Bob wasn''t about to abandon his cloak. There could be some epic mud-related classes. You''ve just got to keep an open mind. "Here I''ll give you some suggestions: The Mud God. Slime Shaman. Heaven''s Muk. Apocalypse Mud. There, take your pick. "
Additional class possibilities calculated.
"Here we go. Here we go."
Choose Your Class: Heaven''s Fool (unique) (current)
"I should have known. It''s my own fault. It''s my own fault. A man can''t help but get his hopes up. You''d think I''d have learned by now. It''s you after all. The system. The mean-spirited, small-hearted, twisted little, petty-man system. It''s gotta be nice to be an omnipotent entity. You can get away with all the shit in the world. "The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. "Fine, fine, understood. Heaven''s Fool reporting for mockery." Bob selected his only option.
Class: Heaven''s Fool (unique) Heaven watches and laughs Level Bonus: Ability Tree: N/A (Slot machine - Each evolution, select a random ability)
The class description was unchanged. Maybe that meant the boosts scaled to your rank. Or maybe this was an even inferior class than Bob had thought.
Assigning new skill...
A slot machine window appeared in front of Bob. Yep, that''s right, he''d almost forgotten, the abilities of the heaven''s fool were determined not by some underlying philosophy or synergistic design, no they were determined by cracking the arm of a slot machine and praying the gods of fortune wouldn''t spit on you. Bob shielded his head. Spit incoming. Three rows of text, each detailing a unique ability, flashed in front of him. The overlay was warped to give the impression of a wheel, hinting at more options below and above the visible window. Next came the slot arm, an absurdly mechanically black rod with a plastic handle on the end. Naturally it connected directly into thin air. Bob had had plenty of time to think through his strategy here. System randomness was a black box. He didn''t understand how it worked, but he understood it was not probabilistically independent. His actions, decisions and words were fed into the box and had some abstruse effect on the internal workings. In other words, it mattered what he did. So if Bob played his cards just right, he might be able to get exactly what he wanted. And what did he want? Do you have to ask? Fireball dammit. Sure that would mean his new skill massively overlapped with George''s own. Who cares? It''s a fireball. Maybe there''d even be synergy, where one fire breath added to one fire ball became a threefold inferno. You can''t decide your own path based on what the people around you do. You''ve got to be your own man. Initiating strategy fire-me-not. Here comes some high-level reverse psychology. Bob tapped his lip and frowned. He was trying to convey an air of deep thought. He paced back and forth in front of the slot arm. He muttered to himself. Loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to make it seem like he was talking to himself. "Now, what new ability do I need? Right now I''m an ambush predator. I attack out of stealth with overwhelming force." Yes, yes, Bob, you can''t jump to the point. The system can''t realise you are leading it on. Subtle. Gentle. Just prod it in the right direction. "What I could really use is an escape ability, something to let me reset. A return-home spell would be ideal. Or some kind of decoy. Maybe a shadow clone or magical illusion." Here we come, softly now, Bob, softly. "What I absolutely don''t need is some kind of flashy, head-on attack. You know like ice-lance or meteor-strike. Yes that would be counter-productive. Actually the worst thing would be to have the attack double up with George''s fire breath. Yep, I absolutely don''t need fireball. Fireball would be the absolute worst."
Fireball has been permanently removed from your skill selection
"Nooo!" Bob howled, cradling his head in his arms. That''s what you get for trying to pull a fast one on an all-powerful entity. Smacked down. Bob sighed and ground his teeth to left and right. What had made him think this here was a good place? This was an awful place. A hellhole. A laboratory and we are the rats. A good place? Our memories are marvelously selective. If you frame the thing right, a man could walk away from torture thinking he''d just had the happiest experience of his life. No more games. Bob would just crank the damn thing. Crank, spin, high-tension music, a small light show. Bob is biting his nails. Not something that sucks. Not something that sucks. The wheel spins and spins and slows. Not something that sucks. Not something that sucks. The options rotate down, each twist signaled by an electronic click. "Absolute Zero" disappeared into the void. "Evening Star" fumbled after. "Human Dictionary" slid down. Keep going, keep going. "Human Dictionary" tripped out of position, and what''s that coming from behind: "Apocalypse Mud," "Apocalypse Mud" at the finish line. Here we go. Here we go. Synergy. A cool name. An attack power. A reaffirmation of the system''s sincere desire to brainwash a mud fetish into our poor Bob. Bob would take it. Bob would take it. Click, and then the congratulatory fanfare of a completed spin. What? What? Bob couldn''t believe his eyes. The skill had crept up, tiptoed behind "Apocalypse Mud," and pushed the mud attack out of position.
Ability Assigned: Meditation (Knowledge)
Skill: Mediation (Knowledge) Forget yourself. Effect: Grants an instinctive mastery of all system-known meditative practices.
That description was a middle-finger. Bob greeted the system in kind. Every time, every bloody time the system managed to get him. The problem was that Bob cared. He wasn''t some immortal sage on a faraway mountain who lived off beetles and nuts. He cared. And the more you care, the easier it is to mess with you. Evolving sucks.
Race Evolution: Human (Lesser) Human Class Evolution: Heaven''s Fool Heaven''s Fool Skill Assignment: Meditation
Evolution Parameters Confirmed. Evolving...
Bob braced himself for pain. He closed his eyes, he engaged his core, he pulled back his shoulders, he squeezed his glutes. Nothing happened.
Evolution Complete.
Bob scratched his head. Bob stroked his beard. That was easy. It hadn''t even taken thirty seconds. He felt... exactly the same. He held his hands up and looked at them. They looked just as they always had. Muddy, with dirt under the fingernails. Pinkish and poorly-circulated. "No way!" Bob had finally noticed. His right arm, his crippled, lifeless arm was healed.... He swung it around, testing various angles and positions. It moved like a dream. Bob was grinning his face off. Evolutions are beautiful things. Where else can you actually be freed from past mistakes? Given another chance to live, and live better. Bob had such a chance now. And he meant to make the most of it. He was done then. Bada bing, bada boom. And thank you kindly. Well, he''d be on his merry way then. Wait, Bob. Wait. It''s a trap. What do you mean? It says, "Evolution Complete". It''s right there in black and white. Bob I''m warning you. You''re an idiot so you always fall for the same bullshit. But I''m warning you. It''s a trap. Something''s coming. It''s not over. You worry too much. Some things are just what they appear. A system message appeared. A long system message. A long and complicated system message. Bk 2 Chapter 9 - Somebody
Pioneer Evolution Confirmed. Assigning World Avatar... World Avatar Assigned. Identifying World Lord... World Lord Identified. World Lord == World Avatar. Skipping Lord Realignment Quest... Confirming World Lord Title. World Lord Title Confirmed. World Lord Evolution Confirmed. Initiating World Evolution... Calculating World Evolution strategy... World Evolution strategy confirmed.
World Evolution In Progress: Remaining Time: 02:30:00
Bob read through the text. He considered. He read through the text again. He considered. He read through the text a third time. He had stopped thinking entirely. If he was supposed to know what it all meant, he didn''t. End of story. It wasn''t a vocabulary issue. There weren''t any difficult words per se. Grammatically as well, the sentences were simple and short. Meaning though doesn''t exist just in the words or grammar of a sentence. It''s in how the sentence is used. Its position in an invisible sky of context. You can''t see a constellation by looking at one star can you? Thankfully he had a couple more notifications and he expected they''d clear things up nicely. The system wanted him to understand after all. He couldn''t be properly annoyed or terrified unless he understood exactly how screwed he was. Ignorance is a bliss the system wouldn''t allow him.
Achievement: Frontrunner (Rank D) I''m number one. Effect:
Title: System Sponsorship (Rank C) Do I know your name? Are you..? No, forget it, I''m thinking of someone else. Effects:
Where is the poison? Bob sipped on the notifications. He tapped his chest, he tried breathing in and out. You know these notification are almost friendly. The descriptions are even mildly flattering. A far throw from my earlier achievements (does anybody still remember Cockroach)?
Title: World Avatar (Rank D) Sentient Representative of the Planet Earth. Effects:
Level decay? Decay wasn''t a happy word. Level decay. The thing sounded serious, worrying. Like someone had just told you that you had a small tumor somewhere in your body. Someone call the system doctor. The guy who can explain to you what these various test results mean and proscribe you pills to combat an inevitable, crushing sense of powerlessness. At least a bump to mana regeneration was nice. Hello Positive side Bob, I thought you died years ago. Hey, don''t knock mana regeneration. Remember Bob, whatever they say on paper, take away your magical powers and you''re only a crippled, out of shape human. There he is. The Bob we know and love, a beacon of negativity.
Title Upgraded: Lord of Earth (provisional) Lord of Earth (nascent) Title: Lord of Earth (nascent) All hail Bob Brown, Lord of Earth in-training Effects:
What had changed? "Provisional" had gone to "nascent" and "for now" to "in-training". That was all. The effects were just as before. What had the system logs said: "World Lord Title Confirmed". A provisional title sounded like a trial run. It was something you could be stripped of. A nascent title did not. It sounded like something you were, something you grew into. And how do you become the full-on, big-boy World Lord? Easy, conquer the world.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The sum effect of this confirmation was just to tell Bob: you are never getting rid of this title. This title and its corresponding death quest. Of course, Bob had never even dreamed of doing so. He had certainly not laid awake at night and prayed some try-hard, short-sighted ambition-weasel might take the thing off his hands. That doesn''t sound like our Bob does it? Nope. Bob was the big cheese. The stinkiest motherfucker on the block. He was the evolution pioneer, the world avatar, the lord of earth. He was a somebody. And somebodies don''t get to spend their whole day slouching on the couch and reading fantasy. Somebodies have it hard. Into the breech. Bob prepared himself for the next notification. This would be the one. The turnaround, the twist, the poison at the bottom of the glass. What? There was no next notification. That had been the last one. He''d done it. He drunk down his notification draft to the dregs and he was still standing. He hadn''t been betrayed. He couldn''t believe it. "Okay then, well let''s see what all these titles and achievements have done for my stats. I must be a real monster at this point. "
Name: Robert Brown Race: Human (lesser) Class: Heaven''s Fool Level: 10 (0%) Rank: D Wealth: 4,921,300 credits Stats: Strength - average Dexterity - above average Vitality - lifeless Constitution - decrepit Wisdom - worm Intelligence - smart Will - strong Luck - cheat
What the hell? He wasn''t imagining things right? He was weaker. Like significantly weaker. Everything but his will had dropped at least a tier, some two tiers. Had he missed a notification somewhere? How was this legal, for the system to unilaterally nerf him without permission or warning? Don''t spout some nonsense about balance and being OP. He was not having this. An idea occurred to Bob. A sensible idea. A simple and compelling explanation to the phenomena confronting him. Stats scaled to rank. He''d just ranked up from E to D. A prodigious intellect among the Es was only average among D rankers. A poor constitution for a E was feeble for a D. Thankfully, worm wisdom was worm wisdom across all ranks. Rationally Bob understood. His underlying values hadn''t changed. If anything they should have all increased given his rational evolution and his slew of achievements. Rationally he understood. Emotionally he did not. Emotionally he felt like he''d regressed, gotten weaker, fallen behind. "Why can''t the system use numbers like every other litrpg out there? What are you doing going out of your way to be different? We have a proven model here. Everybody loved it. A defining characteristic of the genre." "Look, let me tell you how the genre is supposed to work. Each level up, the players status is increased by an objective, numeric value. A reader sees that and feels warm inside. Progress. Progress. Our hero is stronger than he was five pages ago. He''s bigger, badder and more powerful than ever before. Each evolution he''s supposed to experience explosive growth, like unbelievable, completely implausible growth. Like every enemy he previously struggled against, he could now crush with his little finger. " "And after two or three evolutions, the numbers should be beyond ridiculous, like in the tens of thousands. Monster numbers. That you don''t even bother reading, because they''ve lost all sense of proportion. And that doesn''t matter. Of course the stats don''t scale. It''s just enjoyable to watch them grow. It''s the same feeling that keeps billionaires working at the grind. There''s something universally pleasant, comforting, about seeing numbers roll up higher and higher. It''s all meaningless in the grand scheme of things. What''s important is the feeling." "You follow me, system? You understand? And yes, of course, your approach is more practical. Your stats are actually meaningful. They stay perpetually relevant. They tell me exactly where I stand versus my rank peers. But you''re missing the point of the genre. You''re missing the joy of progress. You''re missing... the essence. Ah. Why do I bother explaining myself to a program. You''ll never understand."
Stat Reference Rank - D
What was that? The system had gone out of its way to highlight a setting buried deep in his interface. Stat Reference Rank. The D was selectable. There were options all from way to E to S. The system had listened. Bob had ranted and rambled and the system had heard. "You know, system, maybe you''re better than I give you credit for. I''m mighty glad you''ve been able to appreciate the core appeal of the litrpg genre. If you ever get some free time, maybe I can recommend you a couple books to read. Only the best." Time to bask in self-satisfaction. Time to experience the true bliss of evolution. Time to feel unreasonably good about oneself. Bob rolled the reference rank back down to E.
Stats: Strength - mighty Dexterity - lithe Vitality - average Constitution - frail Wisdom - worm Intelligent - genius Will - lordly Luck - cheat
He was mighty of strength, an intellectual genius, a lithe assassin, a lordly will and an absolutely luck-cheat. There was no comparison between himself and those lowly E rankers. They were ants crawling on the surface of the earth, cowering lest the feet of the colossus should come down on their heads. He frowned. He was the greatest hero of the age and yet... he had the wisdom of an earthworm. That major boost to all base stats, hadn''t been enough to bump it up to feeble. Really system, really? Well thankfully he''d just learned how to meditate; maybe he''d be able to acquire some wisdom the traditional way. "Evolution check. Notifications check. Stats check. Get me out of here system."
World Evolution In Progress: Remaining Time: 02:23:04
"Two and a half hours. What you are just going to make me sit here? For two hours. Can you at least give me something to do?" He sat down. It was surprisingly difficult in this dimensionless white void. He couldn''t tell if he was actually sitting or if he had just taken on the position of seating. Either way it was better than standing. Bob checked the timer again.
World Evolution In Progress: Remaining Time: 02:22:31
Only thirty seconds had passed. Bob fiddled his thumbs. He wiggled his toes. He did a couple lazy neck circles. He played with the hem of his cloak. He thought about sleeping, but surprisingly he''d didn''t feel tired. Something about his stats or his evolution. The stark white room didn''t particularly help. He checked the time again.
World Evolution In Progress: Remaining Time: 02:22:12
Only twenty seconds had passed. "Bloody hell. Didn''t I say the evolution process would be painful? You remember me saying that right. I knew it. I knew it from the very beginning. The boredom torture. The brain needs stimulation like the body needs oxygen. The nerve cells will slowly starve to death. This has got to be against the Geneva Convention. " Bob fumbled through his pockets. Like they''d be something in there. Fat chance. There was something in there. And not just something. Bob pulled out a fresh copy of Jonny the Man - the Kiwi Warriors. It was in pristine condition, straight off the press, the lettering crisp, the colors vivid. Bob wafted a little of that new book smell into his nose. "I take it all back. Every last word. I have never met a more honorable system. This here is exactly what the hero needs after his grand evolution." Two hours R&D. Two hours with nothing to do but cuddle up with a book and read away the day. Even somebodies catch a break now and again. Bk 2 Chapter 10 - Mr. The Man Bob had never been so glad in his life that he was a man who followed through on pointless quests. This bad boy, a first-edition copy of Jonny the Man, had cost him his share of sweat, tears and blood. Sure, he''d had to take on three sentients, simultaneously, without mortally injuring any of them, while counting down from 1001. Why, you ask? Bob had asked himself that too. He concluded it was best not to try and understand system quests. Motivation aside, sacrifices aside, the plain fact of the matter was, it had all been worth it. Bob had quickly found his place. You think he''d have forgotten what had happened with the challenges and troubles of a post-integration world. And you''d be wrong. Bob''s dreams all landed him in the Multiverse Odyssey and among the company of the Kiwi Warriors. He slipped easily into the smooth, elegant prose of Jonny Johnson. He was at a good spot. Were there any bad spots? The grand duel between Jonny and Kai Vortex had been explosive. Jonny had transcended himself again and again. He''d spat as Kai shattered the bones in his shoulder. He scoffed as Kai burned away his ears. He''d laughed as Kai knifed him in the gut. Something was terribly wrong with these young men. And at the end of it all, he''d stomped Kai''s face in the ground and had the Ki Duelist crying for mercy. Jonny won the duel and Kai (who Jonny spared) formally acknowledge Jonny as "the Man." "The Man" being the title for the strongest warrior in the region. What would they do if a woman was the strongest warrior? Bob pondered this deep question. Would she become "the Woman"? It doesn''t quite work, does it? I guess they''d just have to call her "the Man" anyway. Just straight up - Aurora the Man. Do you think that''d have some effect on her dating life? Digression aside. Jonny was made for the title. Jonny Man the Man. Oh, had Bob forgotten to mention, Jonny''s last name was Man. Talk about on the nose naming. Jonny Man the Man, now the recognized strong man of the region, welcomed Kai as his subordinate. Kai brought along his band of Kiwi warriors and they were joined together into Jonny''s Wiki warriors. By unanimous agreement of all parties, they''d called the new group the Wikikiwi Warriors. Jonny Man the Man, leader of the Wikkiwi Warriors. Now unfortunately for Jonny, he was a bit of a muscle head. Managing a large organization was frankly beyond his capacity. But somehow he''d got it stuck into his head that a leader''s got to lead. Figurehead leadership was a concept he was unfamiliar with. Jonny waded into the deep waters of logistics, large-scale strategy and political backstabbing. Jonny waded in and drown. Not only did he drown. He did his best to drown everyone with him: "Idiots. You... bwar. Stop. Stop." The mass of workers preparing the room for the arrival of the royal princess all froze. Jonny glared at them, gesticulating wildly. "Idiots!" he roared. "Can''t you read a calendar? She is coming tomorrow. Put it all back. All of it. Back in the boxes." The workers hesitated. The royal princess of Aetheria was a serious personage. Jonny was only some backwater strongman. And it''s always the little guys who take the fall. "Back, I say, back. You lot deaf as well as dumb?" Jonny chuckled at his own joke. A foreman stepped up. "M-Mr. Th-The Man, I-I b-believe her royal highness is expected t-t-today." Jonny stepped in close and personal. "You telling me I''m wrong?" The foreman staggered back. "O-Of course not, Mr. The Man. I-I wouldn''t dream..." "Good. Put it all back. Or I''m holding you responsible." The foreman wilted. He looked like he was going to cry. Classic Jonny, Bob mused. I''m telling you the stupider the main character, the funnier the novel. You can get away with anything if the hero''s an idiot. No reader is going to ask you why the hero didn''t do XYZ and cheese through every imaginable obstacle. The answer''s obvious: have you looked at the man? Have you looked at Jonny Man? QED.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Unfortunately, two hours was a lot shorter than it seemed. The novel just had so much meat in it, so much to savor and snicker over. The system wasn''t one to wait for its subjects. The notification flashed into Bob''s vision: World Evolution Complete. World Rank Upgraded: E - > D Without proper warning, Bob was booted from the space and throw out in his little mausoleum. It was dark and muddy. Ping, ping ping, ping, ping. The system was spamming him again. Bob had just been over there. You''d think the system would try to get all their business out of the way in their face-to-face. The inefficiencies of an interverse bureaucracy were truly lamentable. Bob wasn''t particularly interested. He was mid Jonny the Man binge session. Hey, George and Sophie had no idea how long an evolution was supposed to take. For all they knew, he could still be in the system white zone. He should take this opportunity to finish off the novel once and for all. Knock, knock. The sound reverberated through the enclosed space. Bob froze, deer in the headlines. Had he been too loud coming back? Was his natural breathing so grating and discordant that his companions could instantly hear it through a brick wall? No, it was an off-chance knock, just in case. If he stayed quiet, the person would go away and leave him in peace. Bob held his breath and waited. Knock, knock. Stay strong Bob, stay strong. "Robert I know you''re in there." It was Sophie''s voice. She did not sound in good spirits. Now was that a bluff? Could she really be so damn certain? Yes there were notifications. Everybody was probably alerted about the world evolution. But did it necessarily follow that Bob had returned? While Bob dithered and doubted himself, the knock came again more forcefully. "Dear Robert, surely you do not intend to keep your Sophie waiting, do you? Surely Robert would never, never do such a cruel thing." Moment of truth Bob. Either you die on your sword here and don''t come out for a couple hours, or you cave early and beg for mercy? Maybe he could pretend to be unconscious or something. Yeah that was plausible. He''d been remade body and soul. How the hell did she know what evolution considered of? He might need to sleep for days. This could work. This could work. All great men die on their swords. Are you Mr. The Man or Mr. The Maybe? Bob slowly lowered himself onto the mud bed. Easy does it. Easy does it. He got down nice and graceful. Not a sound. Bob close your eyes. You''re asleep. You''re asleep. In five minutes, she''ll go away and you can start reading again. Remember what you''re fighting for. Something hard fell down and caught Bob in the throat. He coughed, spluttered, rolled over, fell out of the bed. A moment''s silence and then the voice. "I knew it." A shrill, biting voice. "I knew it. Robert, I am warning you, if you do not depart your little mud box in the next twenty seconds..." What had happened? What on earth had happened? Something had attacked him. He''d been blindsided. Throat-chopped. Bob groped in the darkness and found the culprit. It was a hard, triangular, cone-like object (the mausoleum was dark). Ow. It bit me. Bob stuffed it in his cloak pocket. Where it remained perfectly still. This had not been in here before. Where had it come from? Was someone in here? It clicked in Bob''s mind. His rare item. The reward for his system sponsorship. What the hell man? The system had started throwing things at him. The sheer barbarity of it all. Was this god-like behavior? Was he dealing with a moody toddler or the greatest being across all the interverse? Throwing things. And at the worst possible time... Don''t even pretend it was an "accident". He ground his teeth and strategized for a moment. "Is that you Sophie?" "Robert. I, have, warned, you." Christ, she wasn''t buying it. You couldn''t pull anything over Sophie. It made life so complicated. Maybe there''s a reason why rich men seem to prefer beautiful and unintelligent women. It really simplifies interactions dealing with one''s intellectually inferior. "I''m coming Sophie. I''m coming as fast as I can. The evolution has sapped my mana pool. I can''t bend mud as I''d like to." "Oh, and I suppose, it also preventing you from answering my calls." "Exactly, you do get it." "Robert." "Coming darling." Bob stuffed Jonny the Man into his cloak pocket and sank down into the mud. He emerged twenty seconds later on the other side. Harry shrugged off any over-friendly mud, and Bob gave Sophie a wide, welcoming grin. Bob opened his arms for the hug that was the just reward of heroes returning home. "Sophie, it warms my heart to know you missed me so much." Their reunion was touching, full of the heavy pauses that characterize an emotional scene, the long glances, the sentences started and not finished, the awkward dance of eyes meetings and looking apart, the whole wealth of human experience, of love, of truth, of friendship and trust. In a word, she stepped up to Bob and slapped him in the face. Oh paradise enow. Bk 2 Chapter 11 - People Bob winched. The slap had been more symbolic than serious. No more than a little sting for Bob''s evolved body. But the sentiment hurt. It''s not every day you get slapped by a pretty girl you saved from a bunch of post-apocalypse hooligans. Had Bob deserved that? Had Bob really deserved that? Was it so reprehensible to want a little alone time to read? He''d been battling non-stop for hours and hours, not to mention carrying Sophie through the night. Should he get slapped in the face just because he''d failed to answer Sophie''s beck and call? No, that wasn''t square. That wasn''t how these things worked. "What was that for?" Bob barked. "You''re a right piece of work. I''m always in the wrong. I do my humble best and it''s never enough. You can''t even sit quietly for a couple hours in a nice tent with good food and good company, while I''m risking my life trying to save this accursed planet." Bob caught his breath, taking the opportunity to compose a few choice follow-ups; he definitely wanted to squeeze in a line about good intentions and life-debt and something how about you could judge a person by how they treated a dog. He gave Sophie the side-eye as he prepared to swoop down and savage her. Except, Sophie didn''t look so good. She was trying to hide it, trying to look fierce and angry and righteous. But as soon as he stopped to pay attention: her hands, the angle of her mouth, the little lines on her forehead. She was... frightened. Frightened of him? Bob bit his tongue. Sometimes it''s braver not to die upon the sword. Sometimes the brave man has to put away his sword and live on. "I''m sorry, Sophie." Bob apologized. "You''re right. I should''ve answered." When Sophie looked up at him, Bob thought he saw a teary sparkle to her eyes. He was probably imagining it, because she quickly turned around and harrumphed. But he chose to believe. Bob sighed to himself. He really couldn''t read this woman. He really couldn''t read any woman. No, Bob''s speciality was dogs. George bounded over and Bob took advantage of the opportunity to defuse tension. He sat himself down on the grass and let George crawl over him. The dog promptly bathed his master in homecoming licks. "You been a good boy George? You kept Sophie safe?" The dog barked. "Good boy, good boy." Bob avoided looking at Sophie. Instead he took that chance to look around him. It was past midday, a bright sunny sky, white, fluffy clouds. Bob wrinkled his brow in thought. That didn''t make sense. He''d only been away two and half hours. And he''d triggered the evolution in the early night. At latest, at absolute latest, it should be early morning. Something didn''t add up. Bob studied their surroundings a bit more intently. The unmistakable signs of combat. Trampled plant-life, blood splattered on the grass, the black bomb-zones where George had breathed fire. Bob sat stock up and pulsed his mud senses around them. Nobody there. "Sophie," she trembled a little at her name, "were you guys attacked while I was away?" She didn''t answer, but the way her body tensed up was answer enough. Bob cursed. What the hell was wrong with him? Something terrible had happened while he was away and what had he done? What had he done? The moment he arrived back, had he rushed to his friends? No, all he''d thought about was himself, about reading Jonny the Man, about securing some alone time. It''s a different world Bob. It''s a different world. People die here all the time. Nowhere is safe. Get that through your thick skull Bob. "Are you guys alright?" Bob checked over George looking for any wounds. The dog didn''t seem wounded. However, the dog was so dirty and mud-spattered that it would have been difficult to find a wound even if there had been any. Were those patches of dried blood from way back in the first mud wave? Someone needs a bath. "Sophie." She didn''t look round. "Sophie, are you hurt somewhere?" She shook her head, but continued to stare away from him. "Sophie, what happened?" Bob stood up and stepped closer to her. "Sophie, who attacked you?" "People," Sophie whispered. Bob felt his insides twist. "Fucking vultures," he spat out. How could they do it? Attack out of nowhere. A woman and dog. It was disgusting.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "Who were they? Did you get them all? What happened?" "I don''t want to talk about it." "I get it. But I need to know. Did some of them get away?" She didn''t answer. Bob put his arms on Sophie''s shoulders and forced her to look around at him. "Sophie I need to know. Did some of them get away?" She nodded. Bob could see tear lines on her cheek. "How many were there?" "Five." Bob nodded. His eyes fierce. "Robert, they said they''d come back. They said they''d bring more men. They said, they said..." Bob waited. "They said the Bandit King would come for us." "What? What are you saying?" "I don''t know. Why are you asking me? I''m just repeating what they said." "The Bandit King..." Bob closed his eyes and sighed out, trying to let his anger seep away. It wouldn''t help him. He''d just say or do something stupid. The breath came easily to him. Somehow he knew instinctively to hold it at the top and deepen it a little, before sighing it slowly out. He calmed down. The important thing was that everyone was okay. That they''d survived. "Thank you." Bob hugged Sophie. "You''re ok now. I promise you. You''ve been through hell. I know that. And I''m sorry." Sophie buried her face in his chest. She was sobbing. He rubbed her back and kept repeating comforting phrases, you''re okay, you''re okay now.... After a couple minutes he asked, "Sophie, how long I was away?" "Too long." Bob smiled. "Yes, too long. But how long, Sophie? "I don''t know. Half a day, a little longer. It was forever Robert." Half a day! Bob bit his lip. "I''m sorry." Bob looked over at the dog. The dog had saved the day. Again. One more medal for the golden retriever. Why the gods will put that dog in the stars one of these days. Bob stretched out a hand to pat the dog''s head. "George, good man. You protected her. You took on five men by yourself? Five men." And then Bob''s face paled. "Sophie, what happened to the men?" "They all ran off." "All of them?" "Yes." Bob let a relieved sigh. Objectively, it would have better if George had killed all five of them, but Bob just didn''t want George to butcher people. He was a dog for Christ''s sake. A golden retriever. A golden retriever shouldn''t kill people. "How did you drive them off?" "It was the dog. He should have killed them. I commanded him to, but he," she scowled at the dog, "chose to ignore me. A most rude and stupid dog." Bob gave her exasperated look that she chose not to notice. "He just gently burned one of them and barked them off." "And they left?" "Well, I might have told them George could incinerate them all like that," she snapped her fingers, "and he was only waiting my signal." "And they bought that?" She looked displeased at his lack of faith. "I can be very persuasive when I have mind to." "That I believe. Fine, fine. Well, good job bluffing them." "It is not good. They will come back Robert. They will bring more men." She was getting worked up again. "These ruffians and their king, they''ll come, they''ll come for us. What will you do?" "What will we do, you mean?" "Yes that is what I said. Why are you repeating me?" Bob just shook his head. "What will we do? What will we do?" Bob snarled and his eyes turned predatory. "I''ll tell you what we''ll do. We''ll bury them in the mud." "You will bury them in the mud" "That¡¯s what I said." Somehow the threat of bloody violence was more comforting to the distressed woman than all his kind cooing and gentle back-rubbing. We''re all bloodthirsty at heart. Soon Sophie had calmed down enough to sit in the tent and eat something, while Bob sat nearby and puzzled out their next move. If Bob was honest, random bandits did not worry him. Bob was somebody, folks. The world avatar, the mud magician, the only D rank sentient on the planet. These lands were his kingdom, the mud labyrinth: "abandon all hope, ye who enter here." His home advantage was frankly ridiculous. Able to sense all incoming enemies within a hundred meters: check. Insta get-out-of-jail-free-card escape pod (mud-edition): check. Voice-command anywhere-you-want-it trap door: check. Hell, Bob hoped those bandits would come back. Let them come back with all their friends and their cardboard-crown bandit kind. Let them challenge the valley of the mud. For only a dark and sticky death awaited them here. No, there was little risk in a straight fight. The danger was in what had just happened. If they took him by surprise, or somehow managed to isolate him from George or Sophie. Bob had not forgotten the way a school of worm-snakes had managed to ambush them in the night. Bob''s evolved body might need less sleep, but he wasn''t going to be able to camp out every night from now until the end of days. They needed some automatic defenses. Ideally offensive defenses. But at the very least some kind of trip alarm. Thankfully Bob had evolved. The store held new promise to him. Weapons were very much on the table. But first he ought to formally grant Sophie citizenship of Earth Settlement 1. Despite rocky beginnings and an unbearable personality, Sophie was their comrade. Some experiences just bring people together. You know, buddying up with someone to finish the marathon together. Celebrating Christmas. Getting captured and held hostage together. Defeating a level 10 giant slime. As far as Bob was concerned, Sophie was a full member of team Brown. She deserved the perks of reduced shipping. Bob navigated to the settlement tab. He found his citizenry roll with its short list of names. And he discovered the option for adding Sophie (he could see a list of all people currently within city limits). Bob mumbled a few choice remarks under his breath: "Today, you join a nation built on the principles of chance, mud and laziness. May you drag us out of the quagmire of apathy and into the daylight of meaning. I hereby formally grant you citizenship to the Brown Empire. Welcome to your new home, Brownian." Bk 2 Chapter 12 - Dorogakure no Sato "What''s Earth Settlement One?" Sophie peeked over her sandwich at Bob. Bob puffed up his chest. "Well, you know, it''s just, how should I say, what''s the word... my city." Her eyes were supposed to light up as she squealed: "your city; Robert you have your own city." Instead she just took another slow bunch of sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "And why should I join your city?" Bob deflated. Man, here he was doing the woman a massive favor and he was supposed to convince her it was worth accepting? Hell no. "Actually you''re right. I don''t want you in my city. Citizenship Offer Retracted." "Robert, please, I was just asking. Why must you make everything about you? Be reasonable. I am eating quietly and elegantly, and all of a sudden, ping, a notification. Would you like to join ''Earth Settlement One?'' Who ever heard of such a place. It sounds like a cult and the worst kind at that, the kind that believe aliens wander among us. I reacted as any person of good breeding might. Robert, please, I would like to be a citizen of your city. Please invite me." "No. You had your chance." "Robert! You can''t offer and then take it back." "I can and I did." "Robert, make me a citizen this instance." "Apologies. Citizenship applications can only be processed on a five-day rolling basis. Please reapply after five business days. We appreciate your patience." Sophie threw her sandwich at him. Don''t underestimate the mud magician. Harry shielded smoothly and the sandwich felt to pieces on the tent floor. "I''m not buying you another one." George lunged forward, slurping up the fallen bread, ham and lettuce. There it is, the great truth. The spoils of war are for the vultures. Everyone else walks away poorer. "And one more thing, I find it most rude that you never congratulated me on my arm''s recovery. Do you have any idea how trying it was to live as a handicapped person in a world of magic and death? Self-absorbed to a fault, Sophie." Bob ducked out of the tent before Sophie could find something else to throw at him. Ducked out of the tent and zipped it up behind him. You see, he had made a little discovery while poking around the settlement tab. Something that had him very excited. You have to understand, Bob was a member of the oppressed younger generation. He was a perpetual renter, wandering over the surface of the earth with no place to call his own. A poor, homeless child of the twenty-first century. The iphoned homeless. Pity him. Pity poor Bob. Renting is no way to live. That''s no destiny for a human being. A man needs shelter. A roof over his head. Four walls about him. Something to keep out the rain and the wind. A home. Yes a man needs a home. And what a man needs, the system provides. At the right price. For, inside the settlement tab, freshly updated post-evolution, was a link to the so-called System Structures Corporation. Said corporation purported to offer a plethora of building services and options delivered on-time and under-budget. Translation, Bob was going shopping for real estate. At first he''d been rather surprised to learn that the system moonlit as an architect/contractor. Evidently the day-job of omnipotent deity didn''t pay as much as you''d think it would. But on reflection, the whole thing made perfect sense. The core of traditional religion is an exchange of goods for services. How much do you want for your miracle again? A sacrifice of two cows and one sheep? Come on, do you think you''re Zeus or something? You are Zeus. Fine. Fine. But if you flake on me, if you flake on me, Zeus... Bob was getting a home. He ignored civic, commercial and military structures and drilled down into residential. The system''s selection did not disappoint. There were plenty of preset models in every conceivable style and price-range. You know, respectable middle-class town houses, to opulent marble-pillared monstrosities, to back-of-the-garden sheds. There was even a rather advanced search functionality where you could type in general descriptions and the system would match them against existing designs.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Bob tapped a finger against his lips. He started to pace backwards and forwards. Bob was a somebody. A somebody wouldn''t live in some outhouse shack. Bob had a position. A position demanded a residence appropriate to that position. An office is only as respected as the buildings it comes with. That¡¯s the reason why we build our leaders great big white houses. You have to look the part to play the part. So gentlemen, ask yourself, where should the lord of earth live? Was it self-indulgence to demand a grand, stately home? No, it was Bob''s divine-mandated duty. Time to get to business. Bob sat himself down and began designing his kingdom. He felt like god himself as he molded holographic clay, raising grand castles from the void. It took him maybe an hour, maybe two hours, maybe half an hour. An artist can¡¯t keep track of the time while he works. Bob stepped back. Bob nodded. Bob kissed his fingertips. Bob let me shake your hand. I mean, I, I, I don''t have words. Bravo, Bob, bravo. Bob waved away the utterly deserved praise and surveyed his masterpiece. A 54 room manor house in the English country style, gabled rooftop, chimney rows, great, bay windows, a touch of green ivy, all perched on the hilltop, surrounded by decorative gardens and a novelty hedge-maze; and there in the middle of the sweeping gravel driveway was a monumental marble fountain. A fountain depicting a dog chasing his tail around as water pirroethed upwards from the center point. Bob glanced nervously over at the system estimate. He knew what was coming. 3428300 credits. A staggering, ridiculous sum, impossible to afford, far beyond the reach of mortals. Or... wait a moment. How many zeroes was that? Three million four hundred thousand with a monthly upkeep of fifty thousand. That was, inside Bob''s price range... Bob could do. Bob could pull the trigger and really lord it up on this hilltop. Everyone for miles around would see his spectacular home and they would all flock to it and admire Lord Bob, the wealthy and attractive bachelor. Bob aren''t you a wanted man? Isn''t the whole world gunning for your head? Bob chewed on that. Yes, company was unlikely to be friendly. Bob ought to keep a low profile. Bob looked again at his masterpiece. Was it a masterpiece? It might have been a little pompous, a little over the top. It''s hard to see these things objectively. The fountain though was definitely a masterpiece. The rest... well let''s just say that it all begged the question: who¡¯s the lunatic living in a country manor house while the majority of humanity starves to death or is slaughtered by unfeeling monsters. Bob grit his teeth. It hurt him to do it. Nobody loves a piece of art more than its own artist. Nobody knows just how much suffering goes into the act of creation, all the little details, the stories behind each and every decision. Is this how God felt when he unleashed the flood on the his poor human creations? Bob pressed delete and the marvelous castle in the air disappeared. Don''t cry Bob. Don''t cry. Bob pull yourself together. Back to the drawing board with you. Stop crying, it''s not like anybody died or anything. Art died today. Art died, Bob. Shut up and focus. What are our prioritizes? Art! Shut up. First: survivability. Second: comfort. Third: style. So survivability? How can we make a building that will keep us all safe? The obvious answer was to a construct a towering fortress. Ten foot walls, towers on every corner, stone gateway with portcullis and arrow slits, a moat, ditch and stakes, a mountain of stonework, a physical barrier between attackers and defenders. Bob didn''t really like that idea. For one, it didn''t sound comfortable. For another, it sounded very, very expensive. And lastly, there''s just something about a fortress. On some fundamental level, a fortress invites attackers. It''s something deep-rooted and psychological. You look at a stone wall and wonder could I get over that; you see a strong place and think how many men would I need to bring that down. Bob would choose a different approach. He would choose the path of the ninja. Dorogakure no Sato - The Village Hidden in the Mud. Yes, friends, we''re talking secret, underground base. You can''t attack a place you can''t find. Invisibility grants you more security than any army of sworn defenders. Bob strolled around the hilltop, trying to get a sense of how far out he could build. All system structures needed to be built within the pylon¡¯s zone of influence. Which meant he had to build within a kilometer or so of the top of the hill. Or in his case, inside the hill. That left him plenty of space for something comfortable as well as practical. He sketched out a little hobbit hole for himself. The process was slow, with lots of muttered conversation and silent oaths at system greed. In the end, Bob settled on a design he liked. Nothing fancy mind, nice and simple, a homely home under the hillside. He still shuddered when he saw the final price tag: 814,900 credits. He¡¯d never spent that much money in his life. He¡¯d never held that much money in his life. But if you can¡¯t even spend it, what¡¯s it even worth? He clicked accept. The ground trembled a little, but almost imperceptibly, like a train had rattled past. Nothing like the earthquake after accepting the pylon. A notification appeared: "Structure Complete" and a little remote control materialized in front of Bob. "Finished already? Impressive. Mighty impressive." How had the system done it? Summon the structure from thin air? Where had all the displaced earth gone? Who cares. Time for a tour. Bk 2 Chapter 13 - A Dead Fish Bob was a proud homeowner. A card-holding member of the landed gentry. He had a spanking new, system-constructed, personally designed home. And he knew how the game was played. It''s not enough to have nice things, you have to shove them in everybody''s face so that they know you have nice things. Bob stormed into the tent. "Shut up and follow me. I have something to show you." "Robert!" "Come on. Come on." "What is it? I won''t go. Tell me what it is first." Bob grinned and put his finger over his lips. "It''s a secret." "Robert! I-I-I, you are just as bad as the rest of them." "My god, what are you babbling on about now, just follow me." Bob reached over to pull her out the tent with him, but she slapped away his hand. "I have no inclination of seeing your ''secret''" "What? Why? You''ll love it. I promise you." Bob stepped towards her; she stepped back. She glared at him with folded arms. "Robert, really. Is this what it has come to? Is this your true face? You expect me to follow you out into the dark woods to see your ''secret.''" Had Bob''s face always been this red? Definitely a sunburn. A quick-flash, indoor sunburn. "Dammit Sophie. It''s sunny outside and the forest is miles away. You ruined it. You bloody ruined it. All I wanted to do was surprise you and you ruined it. Fine. A house. I built us all a house. Please Princess Sophie come outside and see our new home." "A house? For me? Oh Robert, you really are a noble heart." "Well, well, wait a second. No, not quite a house for you. More a house for me. I mean, it''s my house, but you can crash and all." "Robert, my very own house." "I feel like this conversation isn''t going how I wanted." Sophie pushed impolitely past Bob in her hurry to see her new home. Bob shook his head, made eye contact with George and mouthed the word "ingratitude." The dog nodded sagely, before they both traipsed out after her. "Robert, where is it?" The hilltop looked exactly the same. Tall, green grass swaying under a blue sky. "Aha, didn''t I say? It''s a secret. A secret base, you might say," Bob winked at George; George knew what was up. Good times. "Robert, where is the house?" "You''re no fun. Look it''s right here." Bob pointed to a nondescript patch of grass with a medium-sized stone. "Robert, that is a patch of grass with a stone." "Or is it?" Bob smiled rakishly as he pointed his key remote at the patch of grass. He pressed. Tada! Nothing happened. He pressed again. Tada! And no surprise, we''re still here. Drops of sweat had suddenly appeared on Bob''s forehead. The sun was beating mercilessly down. Bob swallowed. Was it his imagination or was he melting? "Did I get you?" He croaked out. "That''s just a patch of grass with a stone." "Robert." Tough crowd. "The real house is..." Bob looked over the idyllic hillside. Tall, green grass swaying under a blue sky. "Somewhere," he muttered to himself. Thirty seconds later Bob was on his hands and knees, crawling around the hillside, clicking his remote control at anything and everything. No house. Not even a little shed or cave complex. Lots of mud. "Robert, I don''t believe you. Is this some kind of joke? Am I supposed to laugh here? Are you enjoying this? Was this what you wanted. You wanted to grovel at my feet in the mud like some degenerate sex slave. What a disgusting man." "Sophie please. That''s not what this is." "Tell me Robert. Tell me. What is this? What are you doing?" "Isn''t it bloody obvious? I''m looking for my house." "Oh your house. Why didn''t you say so? Have you checked your pockets? Maybe it fell out when you left the tent. Maybe somebody turned it in at the police station and you''ll have to go down and claim it." "You can be damn funny when you want to be." Bob came up into a cross-legged position. Blind searching was getting him nowhere. Village Hidden in the Mud, indeed. Too hidden. Over-hidden. If nobody can find a thing, does the thing even exist? At that moment, a dangerous thought entered Bob''s mind. A terribly dangerous thought. Bob, now, old boy, why not just build yourself another house right now, quick, on the sly? System construction was done and over in ten seconds. He could pull it off. She''d never know. Hell, it might even be good strategy. A dummy house to conceal the existence of the true house. Hell it might even be a masterstroke. Who could conceive of someone spending 800k just to have a dummy safe house? It''s genius. Quick now before she catches on. Bob opened up his interface and navigated to the settlement tab.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. There, thank the gods, was a new sub tab: structures. Inside the tab, listed prominently at the top was his new home. Truly a perk of system construction versus more mundane masonry. He could see the full layout of his new home, as well as control various domestic settings: lights, humidity, temperature, locks. And hello, there was an even an option for highlighting the structure in his field of vision. A patch of grass with a medium-sized stone lit up in yellow. The patch of grass. The remote control had rather a limited range it seemed. More of a key card than a remote control. Bob wasn''t sure what he needed it for when he could just press "open" via his system interface anyway. Obsolete-confusing-technology-redundancy-bullshit. No matter though. What''s important is the story that lives on. The truth is always forgotten. "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie," Bob said as he brushed himself off and stood proudly up to his full height. "This was all a test. A little practice exercise for you and for our new secret base. You failed by the way." "Robert, I don''t like your tone." "Sophie you have an identify ability don''t you? It wouldn''t be much of a secret base if any old chump could puzzle out its location, now would it? I gave you a big hint, straight from the gate." "What are you talking about?" "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie." "I don''t like it when you say my name like that." "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie, I pointed out the entrance to you. I literally pointed you at the door." "No you didn''t." "Remember you said that, Sophie. Remember, remember, remember. Because I pointed it out to you and you stood there like a dead fish, mouth open, empty headed, glassy eyed, imagining depraved relations between yourself and me. Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. I''m disappointed. And now see and believe." Bob pressed his mental unlock button. There was a slight clicking sound. In the middle of the patch of grass, hidden under the shadow of a stone, a little black spot appeared. It was the handle to a disguised trapdoor. Bob had really outdone himself this time. Both figuratively and literally. Bob knelt down, wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled the trap door open. "I present to you. Our new home." Even Sophie wasn''t able to entirely repress a little squeak of excitement. Bob drank in the sound like it was the nectar of the gods. One point to Robert Brown. Before them, a staircase extended down into the hillside. "Come inside. Come inside." Bob herded his companions onto the stairs and Bob pulled the trapdoor closed behind them. For a moment, they were standing in the darkness and then with a low thrum, paired lights on each stair started to flicker on, one set after another, gradually illuminating the path down. Sophie let about a small gasp, but quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to play it off as a cough. It was no cough. Bob smiled to himself. It felt like you walking into a starship. The walls were sleek, sharp lines, covered in a futuristic metallic covering. The steps seemed to float down, hovering out into the blackness. The trapdoor behind them had sealed up without leaving even a crack. What? A man can''t live all practical all the time. Sometimes he has to enjoy himself a little. And did you notice? Electricity. System electricity. Like most system things it ran on money. There had been a detailed explanation in his architecture tab that Bob had started to skim and then decided skimming was too much work and had just skipped entirely. The stair sloped down to a short catwalk ending in automatic doors. Bob led the way. "Welcome to Casa Brown." The doors hissed open. Bob looked through into a casual living room with two comfortable couches set around a coffee table. He''d picked out the rug special. The rug really makes the living room don''t you think? It sets the color mood and gives that warm, fluffy feeling to the space. For his underground base, he gone for a blue, abstract pattern, sort of repeated swirls and dots; how can you describe art? Anyway it looked good. In front of the doors was a black welcome mat that blended into the floor. On the right wall was a concealed shoe box. Bob didn''t wear shoes any more. As a mud magician, he required natural footwear, toes in the mud. But Bob wasn''t prejudiced. Let the shoed masses come and put their shoes in the shoe box. He wiped his feet on the mat. It didn''t do any good. Mud was baked around his toes, solidified in his toe hair. Very well. I command you. Bob concentrated on the mud and pulled. He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself calling out. His eyes might have gone watery. Sophie couldn''t hear his heartbeat could she? The mud had come off, sure, the mud and a good chunk of his toe hair. He looked down at his poor toe. Was that blood? Mud bullet, mudfall, mudpoon, mud dart, beyond all such trivial magic is the grand and noble skill of mud-cleaning. It remained firmly beyond his skill. Thankfully he wasn''t alone. "Harry would you do the honors?" Nothing happened of course. There might have been a little sway and mumble from the cloak through it was probably Bob''s overactive imagination. Harry was a piece of mud cloth. And no matter how much Bob liked to pretend, Harry should be able not understand English. No, Bob controlled Harry through detailed mental instructions. Bob controlled Harry according to the ancient laws of magic. Bob imagined himself as the cloak. Harry swept down, wrapped around Bob''s feet and wiped away the mud. The mud came off easy, suspiciously easy as though the cloak were somehow absorbing the mud into himself. But success, Bob''s feet were squeaky clean. Did that mean Harry was now muddy? Could a mud cloak be muddy? Anyway here was an easy and efficient way to get rid of mud. Bob let Harry do a quick sweep of his whole body. He felt like a new man at the end of it. Bob eyed the dog next. The little mud monster. "George, it has to be done. It''s a brand new home. I''m not letting you in like that." The dog whined and backed away. Harry loomed over him and then fell down like a black nightmare. The dog quickly relaxed. The process was more ticklish than painful and it was over in twenty seconds. "Sophie," Bob turned the woman. The woman he had mercilessly buried alive in a mud pit. She''d obviously made some attempts to clean herself, but mud sticks to a person, body and soul. Her attempts had been less than successful. "What do you say to a little mud shower?" "I would rather die here and now" "Come on. Even the dog managed it." "Robert, let me make sure I quite grasp what you are suggesting. Tell me, can you feel anything through that cloak?" "Yeah, I guess. I mean it''s muted, but I do get some level of sensory feedback. Why?" "So you might even call a third hand?" "Maybe. I do sometimes call it my mud-arm. Sure. A third hand, why not?" "I see. So, Robert, you are telling me is that you want to rub your third hand all over my naked body to clean me?" "What, I never, no. I never said that, Sophie." "Robert, I despise you." She spat on the floor. "Hey, we''re inside. You spat on the floor of my home." Bob bend down and wiped up the spit. He glared at the woman. "Fine. Bad idea. Didn''t think through the implications. Ok, well at least let me do your feet then. Otherwise you''ll get mud all of the place." "Robert, you foot-fetish maniac." Bob sunk his head in his arms. One point to Sophie Blanchet. Guess they were even now. "Fine, just come in as you are then. But take your shoes off. And go straight to the bathroom to take a shower. First door on the left. Don''t worry it locks and there are towels in the cupboard." "I don''t have anything to change into." "You really drive in the screw. Pick something out in the shop then and I''ll buy it for you." She immediately listed off four or five items. Had she... She must have... Have he been played? Why did he feel like he''d been played? Like he was dead fish, caught on the hook, being slowly pulled up towards the surface. Bob stopped fighting the inevitable. He meekly purchased everything she wanted and shipped her off to the bathroom while he crumbled down onto the sofa, shell-shocked. George curled up at his feet on the nice rug and Bob automatically started stroking the dog''s head. "George, you remember when it was just the two of us. Those, those were the glory days." Bk 2 Chapter 14 - The Art of Evil Bob was crumbled onto the cough. He was a broken man. A strong, independent woman can do that to a person. He gazed blankly across from him. He gazed without seeing. His mind was foggy. He was on his couch in his living room. There should have been a television there. Some high-res, OLED 65-inch flat-screen. Instead he saw something green, something blotchy with lumps. He rubbed his eyes. Ah yes, he remembered, he knew that shape, it was a cactus. What on earth he''d been smoking when he decided to make an amorphous, green succulent the centerpiece of his living room, he pondered stoically to himself. It didn''t exactly provide the same entertainment value as a plasma screen. The system sold televisions, of course. System cable too. 10 million channels of intersystem content. It would take you a lifetime just to scroll through them all. But Bob had resisted. Televisions eat up time for breakfast. Bob knew once he found a show he liked, the next six hours would snap-vanish and he''d be in a daze, half-sunk into the sofa, coming off such a dopamine high that he could barely manage to brush his teeth and crumble into bed. That experience sounded great, but Bob had so many time-sensitive, life-threatening problems that he just couldn''t afford the luxury. Hence the cactus. Time-sensitive, life-threatening problems, Bob. Bob pulled himself together. That''s right. He had a whole bunch of unread system notifications. Bad, earth-shattering news incoming or I''ll eat my socks. Truly the only unchanging thing in all the world is suffering. Best to fetch a little something to hold him over. A spot of black tea and a few biscuits would go a long way, a mighty long way. Bob got up, groaning unnecessarily at the effort, and walked into the kitchen. It was set just behind the living room. A modern style, grey imitation marble (Bob wasn''t crazy), an oven, fridge, dishwasher, three burners, washer-dryer, you know the works. Bob turned on the tap. Water came out. Thank god for civilization. Bob splashed the water over his face. Clean water. What a pleasant, cool sensation. The system could provide water through the pylon just like it did electricity, but the costs were magnitudes of order higher. Bob wasn''t entirely sure why, but the market sets the prices. He wanted a long-term home and he didn''t want to feel guilty about taking baths. Baths were the spice of life. Instead Bob had gone with a rain catcher system and just purchased enough water to fill the thing up. It was easy. The system had done all the work. Bob just pushed a button and threw money at the problem. Bob filled up the electric kettle. While the water boiled, he readied himself a mug, tea bag and arranged several biscuits appealingly on a white plate. Yes, he had done some grocery shopping. An empty home is not a home at all. He poured in the steaming liquid and brought it all back to the living room. He sat down on the cough, dipped his tea bag up and down, and then sipped on the brown liquid. He sighed with pleasure. It had been all together too long. Now to slowly crush himself into a state of catatonic despair.
Sponsorship Evolution Bonus: Rare Item Item Upgraded: Panzerk?fer Horn Fragment (uncommon) -> Lesser Excaliborn (rare) Lesser Excaliborn (Rare) Forged from love, sacrifice, prejudice and slime. Mana Signed. Abilities:
Bob pulled out the white dagger from his inner pocket. "Dammit!" He dropped it immediately and now his hand stung and looked redder than it ought to be. That would be the acid. Next time, think a little Bob. At least now we know it works. Bob picked it up with his cloak and gave it proper look-at. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship. The horn fragment had been beautifully carved into a white dagger. It retained its mean pointy shape, but now boasted a single-sided blade and an ornate handle. A purely decorative handle obviously, since any biological compound couldn''t lay hands on the things. Thankfully Harry didn''t worry about things like handles. Bob gave a few practices jabs with his cloak. The knife whistled nicely through the air. It was mana-signed now, so Bob didn''t have to worry about coating the blade-point in mud. Very nice. Bob slotted the blade into his old, non-leather dagger sheath and patted it affectionally. What''s next?This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
Quest: Better than You - 2 (Personal) Betray someone. Or be betrayed by someone Time Limit: before reaching Rank C Reward: System Sponsorship Rank Promotion Penalty: System Sponsorship Rank Demotion
Bob glanced around the room suspiciously, like he was worried someone was looking over his shoulder. System notifications were visible only to their recipient, but it never hurts to be too careful, especially when he was looking at a quest that could infect any budding relationship. The first "Better than You" quest had been bad enough: massacre your fellow sentients. But pure physical violence. Stranger versus stranger. There''s no drama in that. There''s no exquisite immorality to it. But the system was creatively evil. It didn''t rest on its laurels. It searched after high evil, after the art of evil. Betrayal, yes, that greatest of sins, that one-way ticket to the deepest circle of hell. A friend, a lover, a child or parent, brother against brother, sister against sister, that was high evil. And only heightened by the choice. The delicious choice. Betray or Be Betrayed. You see, that makes it all your fault. The good man is betrayed and the evil man betrays. The system didn''t make you do it. You chose to do it. Cunning and heartless, just the system we like to see. Bob would keep his head down and do his best not to get attached to people. He had a comfortable house now, securely hidden. He could live as he wanted to.
Quest Completed - D Grade Evolution World Rank E - > D Additional rewards allocated for expedited completion Reward (personal): Reward (world):
"The system runs its own travel agency does it? That''s grand. That''s just what I need. A long, expensive holiday. Somewhere nice and warm. Beaches, sand and the sound of lapping waves. A country where napping is considered a noble and admirable way to spend an afternoon and not the mark of a degenerate. A utopia. Get me out of this hellhole. "
Title Upgraded: Viscount - > Earl Title: Earl A noble title. Above viscount, below marquess. Effects:
It was a solid all round upgrade. The stats bonuses were bumped and his retinue expanded. Alas for Arthur. That beetle ought to have been Bob''s second knight. And hell, Earl was also just an a cool title. Earl Robert. Or Earl Brown. Or Earl of Brown. Or Earl Robert of Brown. Or Brown Earl Robert. Or Robert Brown Earl. Bob wasn''t quite the Earl of Sandwich, but he was getting there. Bob glimpsed at the next notification title and started cursing early. "World Quest: C Grade Evolution." There it was. Bob should have known. He kinda had known. There was no do this and you''re free. Slavery is a lifetime package. The system was here to stay. How many ranks were there beyond C? C, then B... then A... then S... We might as well be dead. But wait, brilliant idea Bob on the scene, system travel agency anyone? The rich have a way of surviving catastrophes. Bob could wing it out of this doomed ship. He''d round up as many friends and family as he could and abandon this blue time bomb. They''d set up somewhere tropical with a view of the ocean. Feeling newly comforted, Bob read the full message.
Quest: C Grade Evolution (World) Reach level 50 and evolve to C grade Timeline - 30 days Current highest leveled sentient: 10 Remaining Time: 44:59:54:10 Reward: None Penalty:
Catch it? Bob did. There, at the bottom. The last line. A little fuck-you direct from the system. "Death of World Avatar". Who was the world avatar? Nobody moved. Bob you have to raise your hand. I''m not going to. Bob, whether or not you raise your hand doesn''t change the fact you are the world avatar. Fine. Bob raised his hand. There would be no long holidays for Bobman. Bobman was on duty. Bobman would have to level. 45 days and counting to reach level 100. Bob didn''t know how many more of these notifications he could take. System mail was a universally unpleasant experience. He let himself a few breathes to steady himself. The breath work came easy. Full and deep. It cleared his head and smoothed out his mood. He leaned back. He took another sip of tea. He started nipping on a second biscuit. Chocolate-coated digestives have a profound influence on the human psyche. And anyway there was only one more notification to go. What could go wrong?
Travel Access Request: Sentient: Xenophon Aristoteles (lvl 1) Pylon of Origin: The Academy, Sophos Destination Pylon: Earth Settlement 1, Earth Reason: System Studies Research Do you grant access? [y/n]
Bk 2 Chapter 15 - Derivative Drivel
Travel Access Request: Sentient: Xenophon Aristoteles (lvl 1) Pylon of Origin: The Academy, Sophos Destination Pylon: Earth Settlement 1, Earth Reason: System Studies Research Do you grant access? [y/n]
Bob dropped his biscuit. Yes, I know. Serious business. Bob reached down and picked up his biscuit. He rubbed off any loose rug-hairs and put the biscuit in his mouth. He started to chew on the biscuit. It was a thinking chew. Bob wasn''t an idiot. He could read between the lines. He could see what''s up. He could see what''s down (and to the sides). The destination pylon was "Earth Settlement 1, Earth", or in other words right here. And the address format was "Settlement Name, Planet." Conclusion: The Academy, Sophos was a city on some other planet in the interverse. Or more succinctly, Xenophon Aristoteles was a bloody alien. An alien who wanted to visit him, Bob. And why? System Studies Research. Whatever the hell that meant. Bob was faced with a choice. No not Sophie''s choice. Bob''s choice. Let in a random alien. Or bar the gates to Bob''s city. Diplomacy or Isolationism? Bob''s first gut instinct was hell no. It was also his second instinct and his third instinct. Bob''s migration policy could be reduced down into a simple mantra. Asylum seekers, if I have to. Immigrants, case-by-case. Aliens, never, ever, ever. And yet, miraculously, humans are more than their instincts. Bob hesitated. As world avatar, he was trapped in the system hamster-wheel until the bitter end, spin, spin, spin. And he had so many questions about how things worked. He felt like he didn''t understand anything. And it would only all just get more and more complicated from here. If the system had had some kind of help page or a customer service representative, there would be no problem. But no, the system was all libertarian, discover-yourself bullshit. A guide. He needed a guide. Xenophon Aristoteles. From the Academy. From Sophos, a planet whose name literally translated to "wisdom." Xenophon the scholar, here on a research expedition. Level 1 Xenophon. He didn''t sound like a fighter. But experience taught that level 1 golden retrievers were weapons of mass destruction. That reminded Bob. It never hurts to have a canine-flamethrower on your side. Bob nudged George with his foot. The dog woke up slowly and moodily. Are you really going to do this? You''re going to regret this Bob. I always regret everything anyway; what does it even matter any more? Can''t argue with that. At the end of the day, isolationism only works if you''re the strongest. Bob might be a big fish on the little blue planet. But the interverse was a sea of stars. There had to be a couple whales out there. Bob pressed Y. There was a follow-up prompt asking Bob to select the precise location of arrival. He could have selected anywhere within the pylon''s range of influence. But Bob was lazy. He''d just sat down. There was tea and biscuits. He designated a spot just in front of the cactus. And the next moment, on that very spot, a blue shimmer of light. Yes, a life-form was materializing in front of Bob. One Xenophon Aristoteles. He was humanoid, mostly. Kinda of a sheep-man. He stood on two hooved legs. His voluminous white chest hair doubled as clothing. He was black faced with a fluffy, full-on beard-cloud and the curling horns of an adult ram. "High Greeting. I am one, Xenophon Aristoteles of the Academy." Xenophon raised two forelimbs to cover the points of his horns and lowered his head. He paused there for a moment, but before Bob (who still recovering himself) could reply, the bow had ended and Xenophon was continuing smoothy: "describe to me, as best as you are able, the nuances of the word ''system.''" Xenophon eyed his silent audience, some planted figure of curious proportions, green-faced, prickly in expression. But no answer was forthcoming. Xenophon endured. Xenophon waited. Xenophon stared eagerly at his conversation partner. And the green cactus stood there helplessly. Xenophon would be waiting a long time before his succulent interlocutor evolved into a being capable of speech. Now, of course, Bob ought to have interrupted. Ideally straight away. At any rate, long before things could go so far. But, you know how these things works, he found it hard to interrupt. Something about the gravitas of the man-ram. He was the kind of person who could do something stupid but with a dignity, grace and confidence that made it impossible to point out: "I think you might have fucked up." Xenophon stood maybe seven feet tall. He held a little, black notebook in his right forelimb. His horns were very impressive, curling down and around his neck, a shiny, copper ring decorating the right one. And then he had a little fluffy tail. Expressive appendages, tails are. Bob might have got lost staring into its swaying movement. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. "Ahem." Bob managed a sputtered throat-clearing. Xenophon turned around. He saw Bob. His eyes widened slightly. Then he looked back at the cactus. Then he looked back at Bob. And then he decided maybe the sound had come from the cactus after all and was just about to turn back to the green chiefdom, when Bob repeated his ahem. Xenophon caught himself mid-turn and refocused on Bob. "Greeting." He repeated his ritual of horn-covering. "I was addressing myself to your companion." "Yeah he''s not a talker." Xenophon glanced over at the cactus to make sure it hadn''t said anything in the meantime. And then decided to devote his attention to the vocal sentient in the room. "Describe to me, as best as you are able, the nuances of the word ''system.''" "Maybe later. Like don''t you want to know my name or something? And you know I have a couple questions for you Xenophon." "Remorse. However it is imperative I receive as unpolluted an answer as possible" "Don''t know what that means. But how about a trade. Answer one of my questions and I will answer yours." "Acceptable." Well played, Bob. A free answer from some interverse alien researcher. So, what to ask? There were so many. Like, absurdly many. "What are you?" seemed a sensible first choice, but that was just idle curiosity. "How to game the system?" As if the level 1 sheep-thingy knew that. "How do stats work?" Important, but not super pressing. Bob reckoned he had a rough idea already. "How do I change my class?" The answer, "You can''t," would come back, and that would be a question wasted. Bob could confirm evolution logic. He could get clarification on this world avatar business. Or he could ask something about magic. "What did authority mean?" Or "where does mana come from?" But Xenophon hadn''t claimed to be a mage. Maybe he wouldn''t know. He was a level one after all. And his research topic seemed to be the system. So Bob would be better off asking something about the system. The sponsorship quests? Or the world evolution treadmill? Or... Whatever Bob asked, it would have to be something crucial. Something very important. Something that would affect his long-term future. Xenophon waited patiently. But Bob noticed he was gazing at the chocolate digestives. Bob smiled indulgently. Even aliens can''t resist a good chocolate-covered biscuit. "Do you want a biscuit?" Bob asked politely. Bob held out the plate for him. Xenophon picked up a biscuit gingerly with his forehoof, his dewclaw substituting for the human thumb. Xenophon edged the biscuit into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Gratitude. Now, please, describe the nuances of the word ''system.''" "What? But my question..." "I thought it was a grand question. Well chosen." Bob eyed Xenophon confusedly. Then the lightbulb came on. Smart move Bob. "Fair enough," he groaned, "so the system, the system. I mean, hm..., it''s kinda suggests a machine, or no, a set of instructions, a process maybe. Like the setup to a situation. How things works. The rules and the organization that enforces them... You get what I mean." Xenophon eagerly wrote everything down in his little book. "High interest. So no implication of a divine being or heavenly parent?" "Nope, system has a much more impersonal feeling to it." "Interest." "But don''t you already know what it means? After all you are using the word correctly." "Remorse. I do not speak your Earth-language." "Now I hate to disagree; wouldn''t want to be rude; it''s our first meeting and all. But I beg to differ." The sheep-men baaed, a repeated, deep chuckling sound. Yes, Bob was being laughed at. "Remorse. You are the unsystemed. Of course, you would not understand. The system live-translates all sentient communication to facilitate inter-species exchange. For example, I hear you speaking in the noble tongue, Logotheia, which is the language of the herd." "What do I sound like?" "Hm... Needlessly wordy. Grammatically lazy. Vulgar. Self-interested. Easily distracted. You do not sound like a native of my people." "Well my deepest apologies for that." "Forgiveness. I would hear more on the system as machine. Your race''s perspective is highly atypical. For context, most cultures understand "the system" as God or the heavens. Sometimes the word will suggest a father or mother figure. Other examples," he flipped through his notebook, "the eye, the unknown, the spirit, the darkness, the Word, high king, lord tyrant, the throne, moonlight, etc, etc... Nothing like a machine or mechanism." Xenophon pivoted his jaw from left to right. Was that a pensive expression? "Interest. Interest. Can you hypothesize any reason for your culture''s interpretation of the system in this way?" "Maybe. Yes I think I can. I have a few thoughts. How long do you have?" "High interest. A new system interpretation might be a pivotal discovery. At very least it will be monograph worthy. Please, as long as you need." "Good. Good. You''ll enjoy this Xenophon I promise. Come on now. Don''t be so stiff. Sit down, sit down." Bob ushered Xenophon down into the seat next him. Xenophon wasn''t really a sitter. He did walk on two legs, but his knees didn''t have quite the bend of human limbs. Not to mention sitting on your own tail is not comfortable. Instead he lay on his belly beside Bob on the couch. Bob couldn''t help grinning a little. Xenophon looked awfully like a sheep when he lay down like that. Of course he was a sheep, but that was one thing and this was another. "So Xenophon, describe to me the nuances of the word, ''litrpg.''" "Confusion. The system is struggling to translate that word. I''m getting fantasy sub-genre involving a gamification of experience, commonly defined by an overpowered protagonist." "Derivative drivel. System doesn''t know what it''s talking about." Xenophon was scribbling away in his notebook. "Litrpg is a high art form. On Earth, it is considered one of the highest art forms, if not, this is somewhat debated but I think commonly agreed, the highest." Xenophon was nodding along, lapping up every word. "Now, just between you and me, I''ve managed to get my hands on one of the masterpieces of the genre. A true masterwork. One of the greats. It''s a novel called Jonny the Man. Now, unfortunately, I''m still reading it. You know, you have to properly digest these things. But I promise I''ll let you read it once I''m done." "Sublime gratitude." "Don''t mention it. Don''t mention it. I guarantee you it will you give a profound insight into the genre as a whole as well as the origins of the human interpretation of the system." That was when the bathroom door cracked open. There was ear-splitting scream and the door slammed shut again. Sophie must have finished up her shower. Bk 2 Chapter 16 - v19.0 Bob was holding forth on the subtleties of good litrpg. It was a deep topic. Rich in hard problems and competing ideals. It was a topic that demanded a worthy audience and finally Bob had one. Here was a being with sufficient wit and culture to appreciate the genre. Xenophon baaed and booed. He took copious notes. He asked salient questions. George, on the other hand, was snoring softly on the carpet. Truly, pearls before swine. The ingrate wasn''t even a good guard dog. He''d taken two sniffs of the sheep-man from behind and given the thing up, curling down on the carpet and closing his eyes. Two seconds later and he''d returned to the dreamland where he lived his secret second life. And now we come to Sophie. In what could only have been meant as a grand, dramatic gesture, Sophie had thrown open the bathroom door. She''d been ready to wow Bob, all dolled up in her nice, new clothes, and instead, there, on the couch, in her living room, was an alien man-sheep amalgamation, a long-horned, white-bearded monstrosity. She slammed the door shut and screamed. She didn''t even make a passing attempt to save or warn Bob from what might have been a bloody-thirsty alien. The picture of a virtuous woman. "Dearest Sophie. You can come out now. There''s nothing to be afraid of. Xenophon, here, is a good man. Or should I say a good ram? Xenophon what do you call yourself?" Xenophon, ever polite, hopped down off the couch, straightened himself up and introduced himself to the bathroom door: "High greeting. I am one, Xenophon Aristoteles of the Krioteres." "What did you say? The Cry-terrors. Wow, that''s what you call yourself. Is that the system translating? Tough break." Bob slapped Xenophon on the shoulder. "Confusion." "You said it man. Either way, Sophie, just come on out." The door cracked open and a brown eye peeked through the gap. The Kriotere bowed his head and covered his horns. The door opened a little wider and then a little wider and then a woman stepped out. Sophie looked good, very good. Her confidence was well-earned. A warm shower and a set of new (expensive) clothes had done her wonders. Naturally, Bob pretended like he hadn''t noticed anything. What? She was already more than a handful and it would go straight to her head. She must have sensed he was thinking something uncharitable, because she threw him a dirty look and opened with, "Robert, does it bother you that even an alien understands proper etiquette better than you do?" "Yes Sophie, I''m very special. Thank you for noticing." She snorted and held out her hand to the newcomer (like she was queen or something). Xenophon did not kiss it. Obviously they''d didn''t kiss women''s hands where he came from. Must be a noble, civilized place, this Academy. Instead, he just mirrored the action and they bumped the back of their hands together. "I am Sophie Blanchet." "Well met, Scholar Blanchet." Xenophon turned to Bob. And Bob realized he''d never introduced himself. He stood up and covered his ears. What? He didn''t have horns. "I am one, Robert Brown of the Mud." "Well met, Master Brown of the Mud." "Why is he calling you master, and I am only a scholar?" "Sophie I think the answer to that question is rather obvious and doesn''t need to be said out loud." Sophie walked over to Bob and elbowed him the side. Xenophon made a note in his notebook. "Sophie," Bob hissed, "you''ll give the man the wrong idea. What will you do if he starts elbowing random people on the street?" She just ignored Bob and turned back to Xenophon. "Scholar Aristoteles, you speak very good French. You might even be mistaken for a Parisian, maybe. With a little work, perhaps. The language of diplomacy, do you not think? I am most flattered that you should choose to learn our humble tongue." "What?" Bob turned on Sophie. "You''re speaking French?" "As are you. Though you speak in an uncouth, unpleasant way that grates on the ears." Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. "What?" Bob repeated. "You''re not speaking English." "Of course not, that mongrel, Germanic language of the savage islands with its harsh sounds, its zis and zat, its absurd grammar and halfbreed heritage." "Dammit. I knew you weren''t an English woman." "Robert. No, no. Don''t say it. Please. You are not from England. Say you are from the French countryside. A village in Brittany maybe." "Yes I am from England. God save the Queen. And nothing ever traumatized me like 8 years of mandatory French. You can''t make this stuff up. "ooh la la," "bonjour," "merci," "s''il vous pla?t," "oui, oui." Those aren''t words; they are barely even sounds; they sound like someone making fun of himself." "French is the language of the poets. The language of romance. Beautiful and melodious. The linguistic gem of the European subcontinent." Xenophon was standing there. Nodding. Occasionally writing a note or two. They''re both long forgotten his presence. He reached out and picked himself up another biscuit. He started to chew on the article and a low baa of contentment escaped him. Somehow that sound brought them both back to their senses. Bob coughed and Sophie harrumphed. "So Xenophon, I have some questions for you. We are, what did you call us, unsystemed. And so we could use a little, or a lot of advice. See, there''s no guidebook. The system left a lot unexplained. Practically everything important. We could use a knowledgable, systemed scholar like yourself." "Disappointment. Neither of you found the system primer in the initiation?" "What did you say? The system preimer?" Sophie answered. "The System Primer. It is a guidebook for the post-initiation world, containing information on core system processes and documenting any system updates between iterations." "That sounds invaluable." "Agreement. As a systemologist, my highest priority task is to acquire a copy of this iteration''s system primer." Bob was in shock. He''d had it. The system primer. He''d had it at his fingertips this whole time. The system had even gone out of its way to integrate the primer into his AR overlay. He was an idiot (Bob, you only just noticed?). Well, but, still, it probably wouldn''t have helped him up to now, right? He couldn''t just have had all the answers, now could it? He started mentally typing. "How to evolve between ranks?"
To evolve between ranks, one must defeat a being of a higher rank while at the pinnacle of one''s current rank.
Dammit "What does the wisdom stat do?"
Wisdom (Mental) influences:
Dammit. "How is experience for a kill assigned?"
Experience points are awarded to the individual who delivers the final killing blow. In other words, to the bearer of the mana responsible for breeching the life-heart membrane.
Dammit. Sophie and Xenophon were animately discussing the numerous advantage and possible uses of the system primer. They were speculating about how they might be able to source one in this post integration world. Bob swallowed, bowed his head and raised his hand. "What is it Robert?" "I, I..." "Spit it out Robert." "I, well, maybe..." "Robert, don''t say it." "..." "Robert, say it." "I might have a system primer." "I knew it. You pea-brained monkey. I bet you knew how to defeat that slime all along." "What? No I didn''t it." Their flirtatious bickering was cut short. Xenophon had fallen to his knees and was grabbing the edge of Bob''s cloak. Was that drool leaking from his mouth? "Highest supplication. Master Brown, please, I beseech you, I beg you, will you show me the system primer?" "Xenophon, get up, this is super embarrassing. Of course, I''ll show it to you. I''m not a monster." "Sublime Gratitude. Life Gratitude." "None of that. So how do I show it to you? It''s baked into my interface." Apparently there was a button that let you materialize a physical copy of the digital primer. Xenophon walked Bob through the process. Thirty seconds later, Bob was holding a thick, leather bound book with the words "System Primer" printed on the front. Bob took a moment to glance through the first page introduction, remembering the second challenge nostalgically (happy days). Then he snapped it shut, turned it around and handed it over to Xenophon. Xenophon''s hands trembled like he had received the Word of God, which, I suppose, he kinda was. He gasped, "A new edition. Disbelief. Version 19.0." He almost dropped the thing. He looked up at Bob like the gates of heaven were opening in front of him. "Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude." Was the man crying? "It''s been over a hundred years..." The sheep was just mumbling now. Bob patted him on the back. "Don''t sweat it, Xenophon. And hell, I promise you, Jonny the Man will be a whole lot more interesting than that thing." If anything, Xenophon wept even harder. "Robert--" Sophie was turning on him. A scolding was coming on. Make for the hills. Save your children. Except, Bob cut in, "Sophie, Sophie, all''s well that ends well." She was still frowning at him. He needed to act fast. "And by the way, I like your new clothes. They really suit you. You have quite the eye for fashion I can see." That floored her. Well played Bob. "I suppose you are not mistaken." "Thank you Sophie. It''s so nice we can see eye-to-eye. Well Xenophon. There are a couple things I''d like to ask you. If you don''t mind." "Anything, anything. For Master Brown, anything at all." "Xenophon, what is the banquet of ascension?" Bk 2 Chapter 17 - The Banquet of Ascension "The banquet of ascension?" Sophie parroted. "It''s written right there on the first page: ''Three seats stand open at the banquet of ascension.''" Xenophon straightened himself up (subtly wiping away any remaining drool). He gazed seriously at them. At least as far as possible for a white fluff-ball sheep man lying on his stomach. "The banquet of ascension, Master Brown. Indeed, you are a scholar who asks the right questions. Would you oblige this Xenophon by searching for it in your integrated primer?" Bob typed in the words: "The banquet of ascension." "What..." Bob tilted his head in confusion. He reached out for his physical copy. Xenophon winced visibly, but allowed Bob to take possession. "See, it''s right here. I''m not imagining things. Why doesn''t it come up in the search then?" Xenophon silently extended a hand. Bob duly returned the system primer to the sheep man, who hugged it to his chest. "Concurred. The banquet is an enigma of unparalleled proportions. The first question and the final answer, we call it. It stands as no less than the research subject of the Bearded Scholar himself." Both looked blankly at him. "Ignorance. The Bearded Scholar is the world immortal of my home planet, The Academy. The deepest mind throughout the whole interverse and the fourth Olympian." Both looked blankly at him. "Disappointment. High Disappointment. Der B?rtige Gelehrte? Forgiveness, you are the unsystemed. We debate on the banquet. That solitary line or a variation upon it has appeared in every known copy of the system primer. In truth, it predates the primer itself." "How does that work?" "Origin scholars have found fragmentary allusions to it on the dark worlds. Hints of a great banquet to be held at the end of time. And in truth, that dates the banquet to at least the age of the Deflier, before storied history itself. Both looked blankly at him. "Displeasure. This Xenophon will rephrase. Thesis: the banquet of ascension is the core directive of the system itself. The system exists in order to achieve the banquet." "You might have said from the beginning." Sophie interjected. Xenophon looked wounded. "The path to wisdom is in the why and not in the what. You are green in your students, Scholar Blanchet." Sophie turned to Robert to defend her from this stinging put-down. Bob was stroking his chin. He ignored her, "Xenophon, three seats stand open. So how does one acquire an invitation to the banquet?" "A fine question, Master Brown." (Sophie looked outraged) "Achieving the pinnacle of rank, S class, grants you a seat at the banquet." "S class? Well that''s a bit above our pay grade. It doesn''t sound like anything we need to worry about today." "Medium Amusement. Master Brown, on the contrary, on the contrary. Your world has everything to do with the banquet." "I''m getting serious bad news vibes, Xenophon. This is where you tell me everything is about to go to shit." "Master Brown, you must comprehend, it is extraordinarily challenging to achieve S rank in a fully-integrated world¡ªperhaps impossible. The system initiates but one world at a time, devoting its whole attention to the task." Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! "I don''t follow." "Master Brown, an inquiry. Did you every earn achievements for unimportant or curious things?" Bob flushed a little. "Xenophon, you can''t peep at my achievements, can you?" "Confirmation. Those same actions would not have been rewarded on fully-integrated world. Understand that hitting the level peak is no sufficient condition for evolution. You pass the potential value calculation. Its precise formula remains as yet mysterious to us, scholars. But the Bearded Scholar''s opinion is¡ª" "We''re getting sidetracked. Banquet of Ascension. Planet Earth." "Annoyance. Ahem. Ahem. Very well. Master Brown will grasp the situation when I disclose that on average a newly integrated world will produce four immortals." "So you''re saying, Earth is it?" "Perhaps, Master Brown. High probability, Master Brown. The interverse sits on the edge of a great change. There is eagerness. There is apprehension. And there is confusion. Master Brown, your planet took us all by surprise. The system is a being of order. The next planetary integration was not scheduled for at least ten to twenty years." "Oh?" "Perhaps you can settle this mystery for the academic community, Master Brown. Has your planet achieve anything of monumental scope in recent history? Examples, discovering the grand unified theory of physical laws; harnessing ambient colorless mana; developing near sentient artificial intelligence." "Ah, well, maybe. That AI one rings a little close to home." Xenophon noted something down in his notebook. "Understanding. Satisfaction. The system despises non-mana based life. It cannot level or evolve and grows independent of the system''s guidance. The scholars would quite taken unawares. And naturally, all the major factions and most of the minor ones are scrambling to prepare. "Here it comes. To prepare for what, Xenophon?" "For the invasion, of course." "I knew it. I bloody knew it. Wait, Xenophon, hold on one second, are you, is this... I mean, are you invading, right now? Baa, baa, the sheep''s rich rolling laughter. "This one is Xenophon, copper Academy Scholar, specialising in System Studies." Bob clapped the sheep on the shoulder. "You had be worried there, Xenophon. So why aren''t I being swarmed with requests to enter?" "Two reasons. First, the system only permits transport of sentients one rank below the world rank. Hence, level 1 Xenophon. Second, requests that anchor to a claimed pylon must be approved by the pylon owner and an agent''s motive honestly revealed." "But then we have nothing to worry about. No idiot on earth is going to let in somebody whose stated motive is ''planetary invasion''. Probably..." "Regret. At Rank C, the system auctions off any unclaimed pylon seeds..." "Oh no. I knew things were going to well. The minute the world hits rank C, Earth is going to be flooded with level 10 alien invaders, right?" "Correction. Level 49 alien invaders. Factions will artificially keep them at the level peak, hoping they will be able to quickly rank up upon arriving in Earth." "Man, it''s all the same. The natives always get fucked." Xenophon shrugged. Sophie, who''d gone from outraged to interested to incensed, started pepper Xenophon with increasingly frantic questions. What kind of powers will they have? How can we claim all the pylons? Could he bring help? The sheep man answered them all matter-of-factly and unemotionally. He hadn''t forgive Sophie her earlier comments. Bob stewed. It was worrying. Very worrying. A second apocalypse just around the corner. But at the end of the day, it was a future problem. Rank C was a good way off yet. And who knows, maybe Bob would get lucky and die before he reached it; problem solved. Look up at the mountain and you''ll give up today. Sometimes it''s better to just keep tramping forward. "Hey Xenophon, what does ''level decay'' mean?" Bob cut across Sophie. "I got an achievement that says ''increased level decay''?" "Level decay is the gradual erosion of experience over time. At E rank, a full level will be lose every one to two days. Any level-based gains, such as stats bumps etc., are retained but not reearned when the level is recovered." "Wait? If we sit around and do nothing for a couple days, we''ll lose all our levels." "Within an individual rank, yes that is correct." "What the hell!" "Agreement. The reasons are debated by scholars, but a common, intentionalist theory is that the system seeks to encourage risk taking in its subjects. By disallowing slow leveling, the system forces the ambitious to pursue continual and unrelenting advancement." "Why you, slave-driving, god-complex, kick-em-while-they''re-down system, you." And then it hit Bob. George was sitting on level 9. They had to go hunting. They had to find themselves another level 10 to fight so that George could level up. Crap. "Sophie do you want to come on another slime-hunting expedition?" "No, I do not." "Xenophon, up for some hunting?" "Remorse. The system primer must be studied." "Ok so George and me, just like the good old days." "You''re leaving?" "Yes, was that not implied by my question?" "You''re leaving me here?" "Well, I''m leaving. And you can come with me. Or you can stay. So I guess you are leaving me." "I''m coming." "And then there were three. George, off to the races." Bk 2 Chapter 18 - Cows The three of them were on their way. Off to adventure. To discover the world. To see the sights. To find and kill giant slimes. The American Dream! George was leading. George was wandering? George was puttering about? George was... At any rate, the dog was at the head of the company, admirably performing his canine duty of courting as much superfluous danger as possible. Bob and Sophie trudged along behind, Bob lugging a big camping bag on his back. Sure he could have made George carry it, but he hardly felt the weight anymore and, call him old-school, he preferred to keep the essentials on his own person. Some things you only trust yourself with. Bob had tried to convince Sophie to do likewise, but for some inexplicable reason she''d refused. Why she didn''t want to wear a big, bulky army pack over her new, summer dress was something Bob found impossible to understand. Women, am I right? Thankfully, she had accepted a few health patches which she kept stuffed away somewhere. That was a weight off Bob''s mind. Hitherto their expedition had been fruitless. They''d zigzagged back and forth for over an hour and found nothing worthy of a tale. Some Raupenfliegers, one or two grass crocodiles, a reaper-insect, no beetles; where have all the beetles gone? In a word, small-fry. Guys, Bob''s a D-Ranker. These creatures aren''t his equals. He wouldn''t stoop down to hunt such insignificant life-forms. They didn''t give him any experience anyway (he knew; he''d tried). Instead, they let George get the first couple kills. The dog needed to earn back any decayed experience, before they went after a rank D. Once they were confident George was sitting on the cusp of level ten, they switched to feeding Sophie. Power leveling was surprisingly easy when you understood the mechanics behind it and two of your party members were ridiculously overpowered. There must be a booming intersystem business carrying spoiled brats through the lower ranks. "Milady." Bob gave Sophie a tilt of his head as he deposited a live-captured Raupenflieger at her feet. Bob was a little in awe of his powers post evolution. Everything felt smoother, easier, like he''d been doing it all his life. And Harry, Harry was... there was no other way of saying it, Harry was a part of him now. Bob felt like he could manipulate the cloak better than his own hands. The cloak simply danced around enemies. It would float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and smell like mud the whole time. Sophie grimaced and glared down at the little, brown package. Bob had opened a slot in the side, too narrow for the caterpillar to squeeze through, but wide enough for a dagger. Sophie clutched a system knife in both hands. She slid the blade into the slot. There was a muted splatting sound. She glared at Bob, who grinned back. "Milady." Big game was even easier. The poor, little Spinnenh¨¹pfer never had a chance. Mud dart, mud dart, mud dart. The animal was writing on the ground in a pool of its blood, trying desperately to drag itself as far away as possible from the dark lord of the mud. "Milady." Bob tilted his head and gestured Sophie forward. Sophie grimaced. She glared down at the dying spider. Sophie clutched the system knife in both hands. She slid the blade into the spider''s stomach. There was a muted his and the spider went still. She glared at Bob, who grinned back. "Milady." Bob''s eyes widened. "Has Milady hit level six?" "No; maybe; but how do you always know?" Bob tapped his nose and smiled wide and smug. That was mighty good progress for an impromptu hunting session. But they weren''t here for Sophie. They were here for George. And they were getting nowhere. Sophie''s open-invitation perfume party had done a real number on the grassland wildlife. One good hour is enough to destroy a thousand-year old ecosystem. Consequently, they were going to have to expand their hunting area. Bob started them off in the direction of a large body of water he''d seen from the hilltop. It was in the opposite direction to the mass extinction event so fingers crossed. And yes, he ought to have asked Xenophon about the best way to find higher ranked monster. But he had the next best thing, his system primer. He queried and read. He queried and read again. The primer wasn''t exactly a chatbot. You had to actually look for the relevant information. Here is what Bob managed to digest: The world was divided up into ranked, ecological zones. For example, their home grassland zone. A zone''s rank determined the rank-ceiling for monsters appearing in the zone and was itself bounded by the world rank. Now here''s where things got interesting. Each zone would have a boss monster, who sat at one level higher than the zone rank. Defeating a zone boss would trigger the zone to rank upgrade. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Our old friend, Der Glibbermeister, had been the grassland zone''s boss. And since the world had evolved to rank D and Lord Brown had slain the evil slime demon, the grassland zone should now sit at rank D. This is where you ask, where are all the D-rankers off to? A good question, but the kind of complicated, multistep question that primers don''t tend to cover. Maybe it took time for an area to upgrade. Maybe new higher-ranked monsters were spawned gradually so as not to overwhelm adventurers. Maybe they''d killed off so many monsters that the area was critically endangered and couldn''t evolve properly. Theory aside, the fact of the matter was they hadn''t found any rank D monsters and so they were heading for the lake zone. An independent zone with its own independent rank D zone boss. That''s who they were looking for. "Down boy." Bob had caught sight of something on the lake bank. It looked like a cow. It smelled like a cow. It pooped like a cow. That made it a cow right? Those were the three cow-defining necessary and sufficient conditions, were they not. Picture one of those highland-cattle, you know, the ones with long coats of thick, brown fur and upward-tilting horns. You know, rounded, rectangular body, four hoof-tipped legs, swishing tail. Hell it was even bending down and chewing on a patch of grass with yellow flowers. A cow had made it through the initiation. Good cow. And then the "cow" looked up. "What the..." Bob involuntarily gagged. He looked away and then he looked back. And then he stared. It was a cow''s head, alright, but the face, the face was that of a human woman. And under the face, yes under the face, was a second mouth, tucked into the neck folds, a mouth stuffed full of green grass, that it chewed on in that horizontal bovine way. The cow was wearing the mask of a young woman? But no, it was the cow''s face. The eyes were moist and alive. The mouth smiled softly. The cheeks had a hazy blush to them. And, you know, now that the initial shock had passed, the face was rather beautiful, enchanting almost. The fur hung down in a way that almost looked like long, brown hair. There was something gentle and soothing about her features. Something that put one at one''s ease. She was a soft and innocent creature. Someone to be protected. George knocked into Bob. Stupid dog. The cow had lowered her head again and was munching on more grass with that chin-mouth of hers. The system had populated an annotation: Gesangserin (lvl 9). Level 9? That''s a bit charitable in Bob''s estimation. King Arthur of the Gladiatus Rhinocerix had been a level 9. This was just a cow. A strange, messed-up cow, sure, but a cow nevertheless. She had no claws on her feet and the tilt of her horns meant they were entirely decorative. Ordinary humans without magically powers can defeat cows. We''ve been feasting on their flesh the whole world over for centuries now. Prefect. This here was a good learning opportunity for Sophie. Character building and all. If she wanted to be on team Brown, she had to be willing to take risks, to act independently, to prove herself able to do the hard stuff. "So Sophie, thoughts?" "She is hideous. There''s something most unsettling about that second chin." "No, I meant... oh, but yeah, you''re totally right, that thing is an abomination. What I''m asking though is: do you think you can take her?" "Robert, I''m not a fighter." "Neither am I. I work in quality assurance." She bit her lip and eyed up her opponent. "Come on, Sophie. It''s only a cow. A cow, Sophie. And we''ll be here to back you up if anything happens." "I want you to come with me. Please Robert." Bark! George had been sitting to attention, quietly observing their exchange, and now he''d decided to give his two cents. He squeezed his way between the two of them and then turned to stand beside Bob and face Sophie. He barked twice. The intention was pretty clear. "Robert, your dog is making fun of me. Bad dog. Bad dog." "Sophie, I think what George said is most reasonable. I think you ought to reflect on his arguments." George gave a cheerful ruff. "You''ve welcome George." Sophie gritted teeth. "Fine. Just you wait. I''ll show you both." "That''s exactly what we want, eh, George? Good luck, old girl. Bring home the beefsteak." To her credit, she didn''t charge straight in. She stood there a while, thinking, formulating, coming up with a foolproof plan. Bob beamed. Look at how my little girl has grown up. And then a grin started to spread over her face. She''d had an idea. Wonderful. She looked straight at Bob and beamed. Peace on earth. Except, why, there was sinister spark to that smile that Bob didn''t like; no he didn''t like it in the slightest. Bob started to frown. "Sophie." Sophie took out her perfume bottle, closed her eyes and began muttered something. "Sophie, hey, Soph, do you maybe want to tell us your plan? You know we could brainstorm together. Agree on details." Sophie opened her eyes. The woman was crazy. She dashed out a splash of perfume on George, and then started running off into the underbrush, cackling to herself. A witch! Bob crouched down and sniffed George''s fur. There was no smell. He sighed out with relief. Thank god. She''d just been pretending. She''d never actually use us bait would she? No that would be a line too far. Even Sophie wouldn''t do that? The cow suddenly lifted her head and gazed searchingly into the distance. No? Its very human nose started to sniff. No way? The cow seemed to lock on to some scent in the air. She didn''t. She can''t have. The cow started to tread forward into the taller grasses. It was heading straight in their direction. That bloody cow. Bk 2 Chapter 19 - Music Sophie was a heartless soul. Bob was beginning to think that if he had had to have a cow as his companion, he might be off with a peaceful, slow-moving herbivore than the banshee, backstabbing human who called herself Sophie. Still he played along. It was all in good fun. The enemy was a cow after all. Bob might be afraid of a lot of things but cows had yet to make the list. Bob and George crawled through the grasses. They were leading the cow away from their initial position, so that Sophie could flank more easily. The cow trotted forward, swishing its tail aimlessly, pausing now and again to refresh on greenery. Could Sophie somehow control the strength of attraction? Or was this the cow''s maximum speed? Because it was definitely following them; it was just taking its sweet time about it. Through his mud vision, Bob watched Sophie sneak up behind the cow. She was quite a good sneaker. If Bob hadn''t know exactly where to look, he would never have spotted her moving through the grasses. She was close now. Striking distance. All she had to do was get up and plunge the dagger into the cow''s side. Here she goes. She floated up. She raised her weapon. She... froze. Bob could see her hands were shaking. Dammit Sophie. The cow moved lazily forward. The cow yawned. The cow took a step. The cow bent down to have a bite of grass and then... Bob jumped into action: he stood full up, looking Sophie straight in the eye and made violent stabbing motions. Sophie glared back at him, her face reddening visibly. And then the cow lifted its head, chewing loudly, and Bob had to dive for cover. The cow wasn''t stupid. It did notice something. It tilted its head, it chewed, it examined the area, it chewed, it started to bumble forward again, it chewed and then... Sophie made her move, Sophie was flying forward, she''d committed, no turning back now, the cow swung its head around, and Sophie dived for cover. Bob tried to stop himself from laughing. He didn''t succeed. There was the noticeable sound of laughter followed by the thudding skid of a body impacting the grass. The cow started to turn. It would discover Sophie for sure. The cow stopped. Continued turning. Stopped. Decided it would rather find the sweet-smelling place. Turned back. Stopped. Picked up a mouthful of grass. And then began trotting forward again. All clear. A nightmare figure, vaguely resembling a woman, rose up the grasses. Its nice, summer dress was spotted with dark mud. Who wears white to a hunting expedition? Repeated humiliation really takes the charitable soul out of a person. Sophie lunged at the cow and the knife blistered into the animal''s side. The cow moaned. It crumbled to its knees. It was crying. Tears fluttered down its human cheeks as it whimpered and begged wordlessly for mercy. It didn''t even try to fight. The face looked back at Sophie. A woman''s crying face. Sophie was holding the knife, blood on her hands, blood on her dress, preparing to plunge in the dagger. Their eyes met and Sophie stopped short. Bob and George walked over. He was about to start lecturing the girl on the importance of decisive action, but once he saw the creature up close, he just didn''t have to stomach. He felt damn sorry for the cow. It was really quite heart-wrenching. The poor cow didn''t understand what was happening. It was lying there in the grass. Weak and innocent. Moaning in a human voice. Just because the system called an animal a monster, didn''t make it one. "Sophie what do you want to do? You don''t have to do. We can let her go if you want. Give her a health patch even." He could see she was tempted. She didn''t let it show, but it was obvious the sight of the cow bothered Sophie. And yet, she shook her head and whispered. "This is what it takes to be strong." "Maybe. I don''t know. I don''t have the answers Sophie. There might be a better way and we just haven''t found it." She smiled unhappily. "Robert, we both know the world doesn''t work like that." "I guess. You''ve had it worse than I have." "Yes, yes I have." Sophie stepped forward. She brought the dagger up. The cow was looking at her, with those big, innocent, green eyes, like a child''s, flickering with uncomprehending fear. The cow had stopped moaning and started humming to herself, a quiet, melodious tune, like she wanted to drown out the world around her. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Music is a strange magic, don''t you think? Somehow it speaks straight to the heart. Bob caught himself choking up a little. He felt strange and restless. What was this feeling? There was pity mixed in, remorse and fear too, but it wasn''t just that. There was something else. Something more primal. He was thirsty. Yes he was thirsty. He was just parched. His throat was so dry and unpleasant. It was like he was choking. He swallowed and everything seemed to catch and grind. He needed something to drink. Just a glass of something. You can''t do anything in a state like this. And look, how blue the waters of the lake sparkle. It was then that Bob saw George plunge towards the lake, tongue lolling out. No fair, George. Sophie wasn''t far behind, dagger long since fallen from her grip. Wait for me. Bob sprinted after. He hadn''t forgotten the cow. But it was such a sweet, little, innocent thing. He was glad they hadn''t killed her. And the water was calling to him. And he would answer the call. But was that a ripple running over the surface? And on such a still day. Curious. And how deep and dark the lake appeared up close. The cow''s tune seemed to ring in his ears. Water, water. George was already at the shoals, playing in the waves, throwing himself down and rolling about in the cool liquid, slurping up mouthful after mouthful. Sophie was right behind, splashing water on herself and drinking deep and long. Bob''s bare feet slipped into the water and it was a cool and delightful sensation. He waded out. The cold, refreshing darkness welcomed him. He couldn''t stand any more. He was treading water. Sophie was nearby. George was paddling over. He drank and drank and drank. It was better than anything he''d ever tasted. Fresh, clean, invigorating. But something was off. There was a low buzzing in the back of Bob''s mind. He tried to ignore it. It grew louder; it turned into a knocking and then a pounding, like someone was trying to break through. He didn''t want to be found. But why didn''t he want to be found? He was... He was... What the hell was he doing? The mental prison shattered. He was far out, deep in the lake. He looked back. The cow was standing on the banks, staring meanly at him, its eyes twisted with violence and cruelty. That bloody cow. But what a beautiful voice, what tones and melodies, the music lapped about him, like old red wine. He tasted it and it was a heady, strong Dionysian grape. Then his will gripped down. He breathed in and sighed out. His mind cleared. He breathed in and sighed out. The stillness deepened. Harry slid about him. Mud armor. The music died. It was dark and peaceful here. Only the sound of his breath, of the pure ohm, rising and falling. Time seemed to soften.The mud in front of his eyes faded into transparency. He could look out onto the world. Sophie and George were laughing together. Sophie would splash water into George''s face and George would bark happily back. The two of them were finally getting along. There''s always a silver lining. But, what was that? Ripples in the water. Too many and too close. Great, big ripples, waves. Something was coming. Think Bob think. What could he do? Why does it always end up like this? "I''m sorry Sophie." Bob pushed Sophie underwater. It was his second time drowning the woman in their short acquaintance (only the second). He held her there, one, two, three. A stream of white bubbles floated up and Bob hauled her to surface. She was screaming. "Ten-ten-tentacles, tentacles!" She kept screaming as she madly front-crawled towards the shoreline. A brilliant strategy. Why hadn''t Bob thought of that. In one move to completely disrupt the siren''s spell. George was free. And free George continued to frolic about on the lake. That dog had always liked swimming. Stupid dog. Bob grabbed the animal by the collar and started towing him towards land. The idiot canine resisted. "Dammit George. We''ll go swimming another time." The idiot canine continued resisting. Thankfully Bob was stronger. Harry had streamlined himself and finned out Bob''s legs. Bob zipped through the water. They were close now. They were going to make it. Dry land ahoy. Sophie landed first. Without stopping, without pausing, without catching her breath, she scooped up a stone and ran screaming at the cow. The cow stumbled back as Sophie jumped on top of her. Sophie hammered the stone down into the cow''s head, again, again, again and the whole time she was screaming her lungs off. The cow toppled over to the side, but Sophie did not stop. The stone was red. Blood and brains spattered everywhere. And she was still screaming, screaming and screaming. I told you she was a banshee. Bob''s foot touched ground. They were safe. They''d made it. It was over. And then he fell, pulling George down under with him. Something had grabbed him by the leg. Something had grabbed him and was dragging him deeper into the water. He tried to kick it off, but it wouldn''t budge. Somehow he manage to spin around and get eyes on the monster. He started to scream. They were not safe. They were very, very far from safe. A storm of black and purple tentacles slithered towards him; they were on top of him. The other leg. His waist. His chest. Bob shouted at George, "blub, blub, blub-blub." White bubbles. Stupid dog. With the last of his strength, Bob propelled George away from himself. A tentacle swept after. The dog jetted forward, he hit the ground running. George would make it yet. The tentacle caught him just at water''s edge, sucking him back down into the depth. They were trapped. Trapped underwater, helpless, drowning, spent. In front of them was their adversary. They''d found him, alright. The zone boss. The lord of the lake, of the depths, of the quiet grave. The terror of tentacles. The horned octopus.
Der Krakenbulle (lvl 10)
Bk 2 Chapter 20 - Bottled Water Maybe they could negotiate. That had worked before. "Blub, blub, blub," Bob appealed elegantly to the lord of the deep. "Blub, blub?" He started gesturing. "Blub, blub, blub blub, blubby blub." White bubbles danced up out of his mouth and floated towards the surface (the cloak was letting the air escape and then sealing up behind it). In the meantime, they were being dragged down further into the lake. Tentacle forest coming up on your left folks. It was a dark and mysterious place, with that soundless quality of the underwater. And then, there he was, in the flesh, Der Krakenbulle. The head of this evil organization had finally came into focus. The head was a lot smaller than Bob had imagined. In other circumstances, he might have said comically small. A round, purple octopus head with the horns of an adult bull. Here we go. There''s no point negotiating with the arms of an enterprise. You''ve got to go straight for the head. "Blub blub blub." Bob gave a mock bow. It was difficult given how tightly he was tentacled, but the attempt is what''s important. The octopus blinked at him. The octopus turned away. Oh Mr. HardBall over here. I get it. Words are cheap. A contract, an agreement stamped with the hard, cold seal of the system. You''ve got it. 50,000 credits. Don''t be so stingy. 50,000 credits is hardly stingy. Bob, you''re drowning to death here. Bah, you''ll bankrupt me. Fine, 500,000 credits. He clicked send.
The designated recipient is not eligible for system contract services.
Bob groaned. It came out as one long bluuub. George was done waiting. He''d done the gentlemanly thing and let Bob have his go, something Bob very much appreciated, but now that his master''s plan was a bust, the dog decided to settle things himself. A burst of underwater flame pillared straight for the octopus''s head. The monster reacted instantly. It jetted itself backwards, catapulting George away at the same time, as it throw up a screen of tentacles to protect himself. Water beats fire. The lake swallowed up the force of the mini-explosion, expelling the energy upwards in a pillar of steam and scattering tentacles in every possible direction. Bob too was sent spiraling downwards and puddled into the mud at the bottom of the lake. Annoyingly, the monster kept a firm hold on him. But where there''s mud, there''s hope. Bob quickly grabbed hold of as much mud as he could, anchoring himself into position, as he tried to slip under the surface. The tentacles contested the move, but Lesser Excalibur went to work on them. The minor acid did wonders carving through octopus tentacle. He was half submerged when reinforcement tentacles poured onto the scene. They were fresh, numerous and sticky. He just couldn''t cut his way through all of them. And the clock was ticking; every moment, his evolved body burned through stored oxygen like wildfire. He was starting to drown. In desperation, Bob threw up a mud screen. Visibility immediately dropped to zero. It didn''t help. The octopus could tell Bob''s position through the tentacles. Bob was losing. More and more tentacles latched onto him. He was getting dragged up and out of the mud. Boom. George had let out another breath of fire. An underwater storm swept through: tentacles were blasted away or fell lifeless and inert; Bob didn''t miss his chance. "Blub!" (Excaliborn), Bob wielded the legendary blade in a might sweep, shearing through the remaining tentacles. He trapdoored down into the mud. He''d done it. Not. A split-second later the tentacles were diving after him, swimming easily through the soft mud. If only Bob had known how to harden ordinary mud. He didn''t, so he dodged left then right, corkscrewing deeper, as he used his mud-sense to pinpoint the attacks before they reached him. He bottomed out at a layer of hard clay. The octopus was still in range and the tentacles kept after him. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! He was... There. That pulling feeling in his chest, that sharp, tight pain. He was drowning. He was dying. He felt his heart accelerated. Ba-dum, ba-dum. The first signs of oxygen deprivation. He''d run out. He''d flatline. Everything would go dark. Calm down Bob. Calm down. He started to count. Up to four and then repeating. He focused on the numbers. His heart quieted and his head cleared. His whole body slowed, he stopped moving. He was the mud. The mud moved. He zigzagged forward. He could feel the shoreline. The pebbles that lit up as blind spots on his mud radar. One final push and he''d burst out onto dry land. But the octopus was two steps ahead of him. Bob collided into a wall of tentacles blocking off his path out of the water. He couldn''t break through. He was trapped. He sank slowly down. He was done for. Somehow high above, there was another boom. The octopus refocused his attention, trusting to the strength of the wall. Bob was as good as dead. Bob was dying. The pain flashed. It was too late. George was too late. The pain crept up his chest, along his neck, the pain reached his head and... exploded. Air, he needed air. He was deep underground, beneath the bottom of the lake. There was no air. The stuff of life. The vapor of being. Here was the silence and the darkness and the mud. He was drifting away... losing himself... Sleep. Sleep. His camping pack! He''d been wearing it this whole time. He pulled it open. Yes, yes, they were still there. Two empty bottles of water, chock full of the good stuff, O?. He unscrewed the cap and breathed in. Oxygen flooded his system. He breathed again. There was a feeling of euphoria, of sheer bliss and an intense sensation as oxygen once more circulated. He was alive. But already the bottle''s air was growing thin. His bloodstream hovered up every last particle of oxygen. He crushed the bottle, forcing more air into his lungs. Then the next. His last. He drank it all down, to the dregs. Bob understood now. It had come to him with that first flush of oxygen. He''d been going about this all wrong (why the hell had he been wasting his precious oxygen supply negotiating). This here was a fight. Bob & Co. versus The Tentacle Army. Pop, Pop, Boom. George had the right idea. You want to kill the hydra, you''ve got to cut off the head. Bob had been running in the wrong direction. Pop, Pop Pop. Things were heating up. Bob better get himself into the action. Pop. Bob lined himself up. Pop, Pop. What the hell was George doing up there? Bob did some rough mental calculations. Pop. I''m coming for you George. Three, two one: blast off. Bob missiled himself upwards, using the layers of mud to stack acceleration. He burst out into the water and kept going, torpedoing forward. He was the mud spear and Excaliborn was the tip. To infinity and beyond. Pop. He cut through the water. Pop. He sliced through the lake. Target sighted. Target sighted. Pop, Pop. He''d judged right (or he''d gotten bloody lucky). There was the octopus head. He was on course. Target locked. Target locked. The octopus lazily dodged. But Bob was a heat-seeking missile. He could adjust course. Harry tilted their fins and put them back on a collision trajectory. Pop. The octopus froze. It was first time Bob thought he''d seen fear in the monster''s eyes. They had him. And then whoosh and everything was dark. They were inside a sphere of black ink. Bob couldn''t see. He was flying blind. On a mad impulse, he adjusted left. Crash. He''d hit something. Whoosh. They were airborne. Harry opened and Bob gulped down air. Sweet, sweet, air. Plunk. They were back in the water. They jumped clean out of the ink cloud. Pop, Pop. Had Bob got him? Yes. No. The point had missed, but he''d sidebarged the octopus head and was dragging the creature in front of him. Harry swept out, tangling up the octopus in muddy tentacles. A taste of his own medicine. Pop. Bob got the knife around. Now to finish it. A thousand tentacles converged on Bob''s position. Excaliborn was knocked away. The world was wriggling tentacles. It was a vision out of a Japanese nightmare and then, thud. Bob clutched his side. He was bleeding. The octopus had bloody horned him. Horned him. Bob grabbed the horn with his good hand, hanging on it with all the bitterness of a petty man. What could he do? He''d blown his chance. Bob seethed. He was helpless. He had no weapon. Pop, Pop, Pop. They were somewhere in the lake. The tentacles were pulling at Harry, trying to reach inside and tear out Bob. Don''t underestimate the mantle of the mud magician. The octopus-bull mooed in frustration. Pop, Pop, Pop. The tentacles changed tactic. Death by squashing. The pressure mounted. I''m going to splat. I''m going to splat. Someone help. I promise I''ll stop torturing Raupenflieger, just let me out. Pop, Pop, Pop. And suddenly the ground fell out from under them. The whole writhing mass of them crumbled onto the lake bottom. Bob caught a glimpse outside. They were on dry land at the bottom of a muddy crater. What the hell? A golden retriever was standing a few yards away, snarling in their direction. He looked ragged, barely managing to stand. He was soaked through. Good old George. Where was all the water? No way... The dog had gone and bottled it. He''d bottled the whole lake. What a hero. This here, this here was their chance. Their last chance. The octopus was exposed. Its head, tentacles, its whole body was concentrated in one spot, vulnerable to a single, overwhelming attack. They had to risk it. Bob swallowed. "George, George, do it, do it now, quick, before he can pull anything. George, fire us." The dog whined, pawing the ground. "Fire, George, fire." The dog howled. "Do it, George!" George breathed in sharply and the world burned away. Bk 2 Chapter 21 - The end of the world It started as a white light. One instantaneous flash of energy, like the birth of a star. You don''t see it so much as feel it. Something inside of you wakes up and you know. It''s coming. It''s here. It''s past, present and future. One moment for all eternity. Bob was wrapped up in an airtight, magical mud-suit. That mud-suit in turn was surrounded by layers upon layers of wet tentacle. There were inches of material between himself and the beam of fiery energy. Inches and inches. Surely, surely not. There was no way. A rank E spell. He was safe. He must be safe. White shifted to red, to black, to golden fire. Bob was inside the end of the world. Waiting for silence. Fire, beats, flesh. Tentacle fat melted then vaporized. The monster died instantaneously, without even time to call out, without even comprehending. Reduced to shadow. To dust and ash and nothing. And then the fire was upon him. Upon Bob. Angry energy battered against Harry and the heat bled through. Bob was being roasted alive. He could feel his skin redden and sizzle. This was the end. Mud is a composite. Particles suspended in a liquid solution, in water. In water. Bob reached inside Harry and dragged out every last drop of the stuff. He sucked it all up and threw it into those unquenchable flames. He reached in for more and there was more. There were deep wells inside the cloak, pockets of space that shouldn''t exist. Bob tapped every last one. He was holding. Somehow he was holding. The flames were starting to weaken. He was losing consciousness. He wasn''t going to make it. He fought on, draining Harry dry, stealing away every last shred of water. And he kept going, even as he felt Harry stiffen and harden. He kept going even as he sensed Harry''s conciseness slipping away. He kept going until he couldn''t even feel his cloak, until the system unilaterally designated it as non-mud and revoked his authority over it. He kept going until he couldn''t, until the omnipotent system itself swooped down and stopped him. He pushed up against every limit and then past and then furthur. It was barely enough. Bob crumbled down backwards. He fell into a pile of severed tentacles that he''d shielded from the blast. He was breathing. Just. His lips were cracked, dry, blistered. His hair, his eyebrows, his nascent beard, it had all been burned off. His skin was a dark, warning red in places, in others black and leathery. There was an octopus horn sticking out of his side. The attached head had melted into goop or evaporated off as smoke. He was in excruciating agony. But he barely noticed the pain. He was gaping in shock at the figure in front of him. In front of Bob was a wall of blackened mud, a wall of lifeless brick: three feet wide, six feet tall and one foot thick. Harry. The mantle of the mud magician. Bob reached out with his mind. Silence. Somehow Bob got a hand on the wall; he tried to push his mud sense inside. He couldn''t. He couldn''t feel anything. Silence. Harry was... Sophie and George ran over. They propped Bob up. They moved him away from the ash and smoke and the ruins. Bob didn''t notice. He didn''t notice as Sophie pulled health patch after health patch out of his pack and stuck them onto him. He didn''t notice as his red, blistered skin started to recover. It didn''t matter. He''d lost Harry. George snuggled up next to him and whined and whined. But Bob didn''t notice. It didn''t matter. Harry was gone. "No," Bob stumbled up on to his feet. He immediately started to fall, but Sophie caught him and held him up. "Water," he mumbled to himself. Sophie scrambled for a bottle. He shook his head fiercely. "Water, water," he mumbled. He rounded on George. "George, spit it out, please. George. The water." You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Sophie said something, but Bob wasn''t listening. "Spit it out George." George whined and let out a bucketful of water on the ground. "No, no, over here, George. On Harry." Bob started to limp back to the wall, tugging George by the collar. "Robert, stop, stop. You need to lie down. You''re wounded. You''ve-you''ve got a horn in you." Bob had forgotten that entirely. It didn''t matter. But he was so weak. He couldn''t resist as Sophie held him in place and jerked the horn out. He winched, but the pain didn''t matter. And it didn''t matter when Sophie applied another health patch and the wound slowly stitched itself up. And it didn''t matter when Sophie froze up and stared worryingly at the horn''s tip. Nothing mattered. "George;" the dog led Bob over to the wall. He felt so dizzy; his feet were spinning, and every step forward was a trip. He clung to George''s back, trying to steady himself. He was going to pass out on the ground any moment. But he had to stay strong. Bob looked at the dog, "George, Harry needs you. I can''t feel him at all. I think... I think..." Bob fell over. Face down, without even the grace to throw out a hand. He hit the brick wall and slid helplessly down it. He was sobbing. "George," Bob pressed himself off the ground, "Harry saved you. You remember don''t you? That night. I''ll never forget. It was Harry who saved you. The good cloak. Harry brought you back to me. You''ve got to save him George. Promise me. Promise me George." Sophie screamed a little. "Robert, it''s poisoned. The horn is poisoned." "George, you heard me right? Don''t leave him. No matter what you do. Don''t leave him here." "Robert, what are we going to do? The health patches won''t work on poison." Bob was blacking out. He was losing the battle. He had to stay strong. He had to. "Robert, Robert. What are we going to do? I just checked the store. I can''t find it. There''s no antidote. It must be some new poison. What are we going to do? It''ll kill you Robert." Bob looked at her. His vision was blurry. Her face was a white fuzz. "Sophie, I trust you." "What am I supposed to do? Robert, no, Robert, don''t fall asleep. I forbid you from falling asleep. Robert, I don''t know if you''ll..." Bob''s strength gave out. He crumbled down onto the hard, wet ground. His hand resting against the dead brick that was once his companion. Harry Mud. He wasn''t strong enough. They''d beaten him in the end. The system had won. George bent down over him and whined. The dog squeezed his wet nose under Bob''s face and tried to lick his master''s cheek. That was the last thing Bob remembered, a brown nose sniveling clumsily around and a smooth pink tongue. Bob was lying there, unconscious, his breathing shallow, his face pale and bloodless. His lips had turned blue and cold. He wasn''t fighting any more. The fight was over. The fight was lost. George fussed about him, whining and howling. The dog kept trying to squeeze his head under Bob''s shoulder and prop his master up. But Bob''s limp body was too heavy for the dog. George couldn''t manage it. George moaned and looked at Sophie for help. Sophie was running around like a headless chicken. She would pick up random stones, stare at them for a moment and then throw them away. She''d sprint from the point to point, pulling up grasses, scouring the bank for flowers or herbs. And the whole time she would be cursing under her breath. "Stupid Robert, how can he do this to me," and then, "No, no, it''s not here. I can''t find it," and then she''d look back at Robert, with his rattling, faded breath, curse him again and run off to some new spot. Pop, Bob''s camping chair. But Bob didn''t get up. Bob didn''t sit down. Pop. Bob''s sleeping bag. But Bob didn''t need a sleeping bag any more. He was already dreaming. Pop. A pillow. But the hard ground was pillow enough for Bob. Pop, a bowl of dog food. But Bob wasn''t hungry. Not any more. Never, never again. Pop, a stick. George''s special stick. That nice, brown balanced one. The one George had been carrying all this time. But Bob didn''t pick it up. He didn''t throw it. He wouldn''t play with George. He''d left George behind. His George. His own George. George moaned and moaned. He howled. But Bob didn''t wake up. Bob was asleep, deep, deep asleep. In that dreamless, empty sleep, the sleep that sits beside death, two cousins each politely offering the other his place. The sleep that is death. The death that is sleep. Is this what the end of world looks like? Because it was such a warm and happy day. The sun shimmered down by the lakeside. The wind trickled through the grasses. The sky was blue, blue, imperial blue. The end of the world. The end of the world? The sky does not fall for such trifles. Bk 2 Chapter 22 - Compassion Bob woke up. He was uncomfortable. It''s just awful waking up uncomfortable. Why couldn''t he wake up in a feather bed one of these days? Some right friends he had. Compassion is dead. Just then, the world shook. He was bounced up and then battered down. Yep compassion''s dead alright, dead dead. Everything hurt. He kept his eyes closed and tried to wriggle himself away from the uncomfortable place. No luck. No luck at all. He was stuck somehow. He was tied up. For pity''s sake, they''d tied him up? He could barely move. No rest for the weary. He''d have to risk it. He opened his eyes. Mud. Mud and grass. It was moving of its own accord. No that didn''t make any sense. Grass wasn''t supposed to wander off on its own. His dreams were creeping into the real world. He blinked. The scene remained exactly as it had been. Strange. Bob stretched out his good hand to feel the imaginary grass. The motion unbalanced him and he plummeted down. Unfortunately, he was tied up so instead of falling, he pivoted around and was dragged mercilessly along. Finally the binds snapped, deposited him on the ground in a wounded crumble. And he had thought alarm clocks were unpleasant. "Robert, Robert. Are you okay? He''s awake. He''s awake. I can''t believe it, I''m so relieved." Sophie wrapped him in her arms. Who was this beautiful angel? And then suddenly Sophie remembered herself. She let him fall back awkwardly and painfully, as she cleared her throat and remarked, without even looking at him. "Finally he deigns to awaken from his long slumber. No compassion for his poor companions. I will have you know that on your account, my new dress was entirely ruined. Ruined I say. I will require you to purchase me several additional ones." "Did you say, compassion?" "No compassion at all." "Yes," Bob murmured to himself, "it''s just as I feared. Compassion is dead. Long dead. Cold dead. We are all alone in the world." "What is he mumbling about?" Thankfully, Dogs understand compassion. Dogs understand that affection ought to be given open-heartedly and unsparingly. Dogs understand that humans are idiots. George was on top of Bob in less than ten seconds, his tail wagging, his hot breath peppering Bob''s face. Bob cheered up. "George, you are one scary canine and one absolute legend. To drain the whole lake! I mean, inspired, man, inspired. Who even thinks of something like that? And how OP is your stupid satchel. I know the same item stacks, but the mana usage must have been out of this world." Sophie cleared her throat. Bob supposed he ought to praise her too. "And Sophie, your banshee charge was really something. Hats off to you I would have wet myself and begged for mercy if I had been that cow." Sophie cleared her throat again. What was Bob supposed to say now? "And thank you for treating me. I was pretty roughed up by George''s fireball." Sophie cleared her throat a third time. Needy much? Bob scratched his head. "You look pretty?" He guessed. "Who do you think saved you from the poison? You stupid pig." "Ah, I sort of reckoned it just worked itself through my system." She scoffed (compassionately). "As if. It very much did not do so. If I had not administered the antidote, you would be a corpse. I am regretting my decision more and more every moment." "Sophie, that''s amazing. How did you find it? I thought the shop didn''t sell any." "I knew it at once. Butterdrafts. It was the yellow flower that the cow-monsters were grazing upon." "Brilliant Sophie." "As soon as I noticed the poison, I went straight there and I plucked it. You were most fortunate to have me with you." "Detective Blanchet." "You are making fun of me." If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "No, no I''m not. Didn''t I tell you your identify power was solid? That''s how you figured out it was poison right?" "Just so." "Man, the system sure loves its games. The Raupenflieger pus was the secret to defeating the Slime boss. And the innocuous-looking flowers on the lake bank are the antidote to the octopus''s poison. We''ll have to keep our eyes open." Bob took his own advice. "Sophie, what the hell is that?" Bob had finally noticed the fourth member of their company. "What do you mean?" "What do I mean. Your friend, the big, fat one, standing just behind you." A shaggy cow with brown fur and human face was looming over Bob. The cow was gagged. And if Bob wasn''t mistaken, gagged with cut-off pieces of Sophie''s muddied dress. "Did you expect me to carry you?" "And you had me riding like a sack of potatoes. Tied up no less. No wonder I feel like I''m about to hurl. I could, I could--" Bob cut himself off. His face grew serious. "Where''s Harry?" "Calm down, Robert. The dog has him. He is inside the magic bag." "You could pick him up George? I thought, I thought you couldn''t pick up living things..." He trailed off, afraid to follow his way to the end of that idea. "Take him out please." "Robert, don''t. We''re almost at camp." "Take him out. I need to see him." "Robert, we''re still in danger here." Bob wanted to insist. He wanted to demand they show him Harry there and then. "Robert we''re almost home. It''s only a little further." "Then let''s go. Let''s go now." Bob tried to stand up. The attempt didn''t last very long. Man, why has he always wounded. The poison had not worked its way through his system. And George''s burns were strangely health-patch resistant. Bob was starting to appreciate the wisdom of leaving the monster-infested grasslands as quickly as possible. "So Robert, would you like my help getting on Betsy?" Bob didn''t think he''d ever seen Sophie smile so wide. "You named her." "They are really quite docile animals." "Are you crazy, woman? They are vindictive monsters." "That one was a level 9. This one is only a level 7. They are completely powerless without their voices." After a short struggle and significant help, Bob managed to fall over the cow. Sophie definitely hadn''t been laughing under her breath the whole time. Half a dozen times, Bob instinctively tried to pull himself up with his cloak. But he had no cloak. That''s right, Harry was gone. And Bob felt naked, weak, helpless. He felt like he''d betrayed his friend. Betsy started to muddle forward. It was an uncomfortable ride. Of course it was. Bob glared daggers at the animal. Betsy decided to pause and tear off a patch of grass with her under-mouth. Mean-spirted creature. "Can''t she go any faster." "She is a cow Robert. Not a horse." "She is not a cow, Sophie. I''m never going to underestimate a monster again." Sophie looked strangely embarrassed when Bob said that. "Sophie, is there something you want to tell me?" "No. What are you talking about?" "I think there is Sophie. Because now that I think about it. Shouldn''t you have been able to identify the cow?" "Maybe." "Sophie." "It''s not my fault. My power is broken. It used to be clear, well-ordered facts: ''bipedal insect, bladed appendages, grass camouflage, flight-capable, lone hunter.'' And now it is all descriptive and sarcastic. I can''t make heads or tails of it. ''Their singing voices are simply enchanting.'' What was I supposed to think? I thought it was joking." Bob mentally facepalmed. "I mean, what? Soph, have you never dealt with the system before, that is the definition of a red flag." Bob breathed out. "Ok. Whatever. Fine. When did your power go all haywire." "Hm... I think. Yes. Wait. Now that I think about it. It only started after I met up with you." "Come on, Soph, don''t make this my fault. I wasn''t going to hold the cow song issue against you." "Robert, I can''t believe it. It''s all your fault. You''ve ruined my power." "How am I getting shouted at. Come off it Sophie. I haven''t done anything. How would I even go about doing that." George barked. There were shadows on the grasses a couple hundred feet ahead. Sophie dropped to the floor. George pressed himself into the ground. Bob tried to get as flat as he could on the back of a cow. Sophie whispered, "I have my strongest repel monsters active. Monsters shouldn''t attack unless we get close or show aggressive behavior." That was comforting. "But it might not work on D-rankers." That was less comforting. "Sophie. Get me off this stupid cow. I need to feel the mud." "That is a very weird thing to say right now Robert." "Shut up. I can''t scout ahead unless I can touch the mud." "Is that a performance issue you suffer from?" "No it isn''t. It''s one of the grand laws of magic." "Of course it is Robert, I understand." She said, while making no move to help him. Fine, I''ll do it myself. Bob tried to swing his leg over, failed, bellyflopped onto the ground, groaned. Cows are big animals. It was a long way down. A long, painful way. He landed in the mud with an unpleasant, squelching sound. "How does the mud feel, Robert?" "Sophie you have a lot of unjustified resentment in you. Have you ever tried a compassion mediation? I can teach you. I''m oddly informed." "Robert, scouting." "You could have helped me down." "I didn''t want to break cover. There might be enemies." "Sure you didn''t," he pointed at Betsy, "because they won''t see the massive cow we''ve got with us." "That is a monster, as you like to repeat to me. If anything, it will disguise our presence." That was... a fair point. Bob got to work. He pushed his awareness into the mud. First, he double-checked behind them and to either side. Ambush predators understand that the real danger is usually behind you. When he found nothing, he probed forward, heading towards the black shapes. He swallowed. Sophie tensed. "Enemies? How many?" Bob shook his head. "I don''t feel anything moving. Corpses probably." Sophie relaxed. "Monster corpses." Bob bit his lip. "I don''t think so." Bk 2 Chapter 23 - Unlucky The worst place to be when a fight breaks out is obvious. I know it. You know it. It''s stuck up on a cow''s back. Cows are slow, fat and highly visible. They are made to attract enemy fire. Consequently, Bob was doing his best to hobble along on his lonesome. It was tiring and painful business. The ragtag group would stop every twenty meters or so to let Bob rescan the ground around them. But he never found anything. There were no any hidden traps or lurking monsters. Nothing like that, when they walked into the clearing of down-trodden grass and blood spatters, all they found were corpses. There were two bodies. Bob could see just what had happened. There was a teenager out in front, maybe sixteen. He''d rushed forward to protect his companion. He''d rushed forward and been cut down. It was gruesome. He was lying beside his chopped-off hand. A few paces back was a middle-aged woman. His mother maybe? She was in a strange pose. Her arms reaching behind herself. It was almost like she''d been shielding someone. She had a nasty knife wound in her side and another in her thigh. That was when Bob saw it. She had been shielding someone. Her daughter. There weren''t two bodies, there were three. A little, ten year old girl had been cowering behind her mother''s back. It hadn''t worked. Something dark and magical had got her in the side of the head. It had eaten through the skin, turning her features black and rotten. And yet, somehow, the other side of her face was completely unblemished. Pure, innocent, childish, her eyes still open. She''d seen it all happen. It was a hard sight. Easiest just to shrug and walk away. But Bob got close. He made himself look. Because that there is the face of our world. The innocent die helplessly and the strong walk past. He knelt down and closed her eyes. He was trying to think of something to say. What do you say to the nameless dead? And what did it matter? She couldn''t hear him. A sharp intake of breath just behind him. Bob pulsed out his mud sense, enemies, enemies, they''d come back. There was... nothing. "Jesus, Sophie, don''t go scaring a poor man like that." "Robert." Bob turned around. Sophie was pointing at something on the ground. Some new horror. "What is it Sophie?" Bob limped closer. Someone had carved a mark into the dirt. Two crossing Ps with a jagged line over them. A crest? "The bandit king," Sophie trembled, "the men who attacked us. They, they were wearing that symbol." That was bad news. Bad news on top of bad news on top of bad news. They were already in Bob territory here. It was only a five minutes trot to Bob''s front door. Hell the bandits might even be waiting for him on the doorstep. Bob hadn''t been worried about the bandit king before. He was the Mud Magician, the World Avatar, Slimesbane. Or he had been. Back when he was at his full strength and had had Harry Mud for backup. The bandit king sure as hell worried him now. See, raw mud manipulation was no substitute for Harry Mud. There were so many stupid requirements and limitations. He needed natural mud. He had to make contact with the mud. He couldn''t readjust or update attacks. He couldn''t harden the mud. He couldn''t hold weapons. Not to mention how vulnerable he was. Bob had lost count of how many times Harry had protected him from danger. Dart, slime, tentacle, chips, the list went on... Harry was his sword and spear, his helmet and armor. Without him... Well, Bob didn''t like his chances. And the clock was ticking. George was level 10 (Sophie had confirmed it). The dog had to begin the evolution process within the next hour or risk getting knocked back down to level 9. None of them wanted to challenge another zone boss any time soon. And once George triggered the evolution process, he''d be useless until the process completed, vulnerable even. What if they had fight the bandit king without George? What if they had to fight the bandit king while protecting George? Let''s just say, Bob didn''t like his chances. But none of that mattered right now. First he had to do something for this family. They didn''t deserve to become monster fodder. Whatever their lives might have been, death had redeemed all sins. He buried them in the mud. Side-by-side. Together forever. Sophie scoffed and muttered something about bags of flesh. But Bob was doing this for himself. Because this was how he wanted the world to be. And if even he couldn''t live up to it, then how could he expect anyone else to? He shaped a rough tombstone. Nothing fancy, just a slab of mud with an arched head. He wanted to write something. But he didn''t know what to say. He didn''t know their names or their history and he was no a poet. He didn''t have the gift. In the end, he settled on the words: "fallen in defense of those they loved." You can''t say more than that. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. George fired the slab and together they set up the tombstone over the fallen. Sophie came begrudgingly over and dabbed down a few drops of perfume. "What will that do?" "Nothing. It will just smell nice for a couple hours." "That''s nice Sophie. Thank you." Funeral over, they took off towards Earth Settlement 1, Bob obsessively scanning the ground around them. Bob was starting to notice his evolution. His wounds were healing faster than they had any right. And his mana felt changed. It was richer and smoother. It seemed to last longer and flow more easily. He''d noticed it in his control over Harry during the fight, but he now could see that the change was more fundamental and wide reaching. Something was qualitatively different between his mana before and after evolution. He pulsed his mana forward through his feet and it sped into the distance. "Crap. There are people in my city. A lot of people. At least ten." "Are they bandits?" "Can you tell a bandit by the shape of his foot?" "What are we going to do Robert?" "Don''t worry. There''s a reason why I built a secret base and not a country manor house." "Did you ever consider building a country manor house?" "No, yes, stop distracting me. A secret base. A base so secret that even you with your cheat, identify power couldn''t discover it. We''ll just sneak inside and they''ll be none the wiser." "Yes, but Robert, there is a tiny problem with your grand plan" "Oh. Do enlighten me." "How are we going to get inside, when a small army is camping on your doorstep?" "Sophie," Bob tutted at her and waggled his finger. "Give a man some credit. Is it really a secret base if it only has one entrance way?" "You didn''t?" "I sure did. There are at least six different entrances. Admittedly most of them require you to mud-bend. Good thing you have me with you then isn''t it. This way folks." He stopped and eyed Sophie. "And we are tying up Betsy somewhere and leaving her. Because I''m not having evil cow-monsters in my house." Home sweet home. Xenophon didn''t even come out to greet them. The Kriotere had locked himself up in the guest bedroom and was "researching." He did, however, baa a long apology at them through the doorway. Its sincerity only partially undermined by the self-interrupting shouts of "discovery, discovery" that the Kriotere seemed utterly unable to repress. George settled himself on the rug, while Bob led Sophie to his "secret laboratory." A trick book in the bedroom bookshelf revealed a spiral staircase (some architectures are truly timeless). At the bottom of the staircase was Bob''s defense bunker. Naturally he had several monitors beaming live footage of the hilltop. The bastards were building a tower. And bang in the middle of his city. Ok maybe a tower was exaggerating. The bastards were building a hill fort. It was still very much a work-in-progress affair, but they''d made astonishing progress in the short time Bob had been away. They''d dug a massive trench around the hill. Someone must have a digging power, because ten men with spades could never have achieved as much. And then they''d repurposed the cleared earth to begin constructing a ring wall. "Sophie are these the people who attacked you? They don''t look like bandits to me. There''s a little boy with them. And that''s an old woman. You weren''t beat up by an old woman were you? Don''t tell me that''s the legendary bandit king?" Sophie glared at the monitors. "I don''t recognize them. But Robert, they''ve invaded our home. We must drive them off somehow. No mercy." "Ah crap." Bob had located the troop''s resident digger. She was a teenage girl who looked oddly familiar. Had she been on tv? He couldn''t place her. He was horrible with faces. One of those reality shows maybe. It wasn''t important. What was important was that the construction crew had run out of material. To get more, they''d set their digger tunneling into the hillside itself. "Robert, won''t that lead her directly to us." "Yes, Sophie, that will lead them directly to us." "Robert, we must strike first. They do not know we are here. We can ambush them." "Honestly, what are the chances? What brings them all to this here hilltop anyway? And how many people have fricking digging powers? I spent so long designing this place and the first group of people who stop by are going to stumble onto it. Un-fucking-believable." "Robert. Action! We need action." "Sophie, there''s a little boy with them. Are you telling me to kill a little boy?" "You killed those three man attacking me." "Yeah, but those men were... Sophie, I don''t want to kill people for no reason." "For no reason? Robert, they are coming for us. You think they won''t kill us?" "Let me think about it. We still have time. This place is pretty deep. It''ll take her ten minutes, fifteen. And why would she dig so deep in a single spot? They probably won''t find us at all." "Robert, you are the most unlucky person I know." Why did everything keep getting in the way? Bob had more important things to do. Harry was waiting. In Bob''s mind, everything would be alright if only he could somehow save the cloak. With Harry by his side, Bob could singlehandedly defeat the group outside. Well maybe. Probably. They didn''t look that tough. Old women and little boys. Where was that damn dog when you needed him? Bob had climbed back up into the living room, but George wasn''t lying on the rug. Most odd. Bob knocked on Xenophon''s door. Xenophon didn''t know. Bob searched the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, every room in the whole house. The dog had vanished. There was only one conclusion. George had started the evolution process. Stupid dog. George was probably sitting or more likely sleeping in the system''s white room right now. How long until George came back? Who knows. Minutes, hours, half a day? Bob collapsed onto the couch. "I am the most unlucky person alive." Things were great. Wonderful. Lovely. A company of angry, hill-fort-building sentients was knocking on the gates. Sophie was practically a non-combatant. Bob could splash mud around with his mind. And their fire-breathing ace, George Brown, was out of play. They were all doomed. Bk 2 Chapter 24 - Drop Barrel Hiss Bob was running out of ideas. He had approached Xenophon and asked him, very subtly, whether he wouldn''t mind, for a most reasonable fee, to act as Bob''s private bodyguard. Xenophon had politely declined. He had pointing out that both his ability and companion object were research-focused and that he was practically helpless himself. In fact, he had been wondering whether Bob might not be willing to assign someone to protect him, Xenophon. So much for scary, alien invaders. Then Bob had approached Sophie about setting up some kind of sentient-repelling perfume barricade. She had narrowed her eyes and looked at him like he was a slow-witted infant, before proceeding to point out that there were in an air-tight "secret base" (yes she used the air quotes) and that therefore the scent from her perfume would never reach the diggers. Well when she said it like that, Bob felt obliged to respond. He did so, most courteously mind, speculating whether she oughtn''t maybe to have set up a repel on the outside of their base before their hunting expedition. She had not taken that observation in the spirit it had been intended. Or wait, yes, yes, she had. That all left Bob sitting on the couch, tapping his fingers on the table and staring into the green, amorphous face of a cactus, as he did his level best to think up a new plan. Sophie had made her position very clear. Offense, offense and offense. As everybody knows, if you kill enough of them, they stop fighting. She advocated a lightning attack, no quarter given, slaughter as many as we can and drive the rest off. And she loudly promised them all a sticky end if they let themselves fall into the hands of the invaders. Bob got it. You only have to be captured and slung up on a tree once, before you start to question the basic humanity of humanity. But Bob was conflicted. Were they really bandits? Maybe, but bandits don''t usually choose sunny hilltops with sweeping vistas for their secret bases. Didn''t it seem more probable that these were ordinary people trying to protect themselves from the bandits? Ordinary people who''d banded together to help each other. Survivors, refugees, families. He''d just buried one murdered family. He didn''t want to be standing on the other side of that picture. Fine, let''s suppose they were not bandits. That sure didn''t make them friends of Bob. Bob was public enemy number one. The system had plastered his name across every screen on every sentient the planet over. One million credits and a noble title to boot. Sure, somehow Sophie had miraculously failed to piece together his identity (she could be astonishingly dense when she wanted to be). But these people would see straight through him. It was pretty obvious. Look, do you think they arrived on this hilltop by accident? Naturally, they just happened to pick this particular hill out of the countless, available hilltops? You''re dreaming. Bob didn''t know how but they''d obviously found out about the system pylon. And the system had drawn a pretty big equal sign between the first pylon owner and Bob, Lord of Earth. What''s going to happen when a mysterious stranger emerges from a secret, underground base, calling himself "Robert"? Ok fine. Maybe they''d be afraid of him. The fearsome Lord of Earth, The Forerunner, Governor Bob. Yes, they''d be terrified of him: the twenty-four year-old, wounded, bald (stupid George), QA developer, whose grand power was "mud-splash". It only takes one knife to the heart to kill you forever. How could he trust them? The simple answer was he couldn''t. He couldn''t trust anyone. Except George of course, good old George. And well Sophie, probably. Xenophon too seemed pretty harmless. But nobody else. Nobody. So where did that leave him? Was he supposed to massacre the whole company? Hell could he? Practically speaking, could Bob even take the lot of them? He played out combat simulations in his mind. Maybe he could pull it off. He still had mudfall after all. He''d have to hit them one by one, quietly, without the others noticing. It would be delicate and risky. And there could be no holding back. Everybody had unknown abilities and objects. Swift, brutal violence. In the end it was just like Sophie said. No Bob. There has to be another way. Why not wait for George to come back? George''ll know what to do. He wanted to, but there just wasn''t time. They''d find Bob before then. Not they, Bob, she. The digger. Yes, Bob only had to take out the digger. If he could somehow capture her and... make it look like an accident... Now we are talking Bob. That''s plan-speak Bob. A quick mudfall, a sharp knock on the head and one happy captive. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Holds your horses. Let''s all remember that your plans always go sideways. I won''t have you going all flower-brain on us. Accept it. We might have to fight her. We might even to kill her. "I really didn''t want to do this." Bob tapped through the system shop. He found it. He hit purchase. An object materialized in front of him. He''d never held one before. He didn''t want to hold one. He reached out and picked it up. It had a mean weight to it. An aura of wrongness and danger. The 5th Generation Glock 17. It was a sleek black color with a textured grip. The magazine held seventeen rounds. It looked modern and strangely utilitarian like it was only a tool and not a weapon. "Sophie, come here." "Robert," she gasped, "how in the world did you get that?" "Sophie I want you to take this." He held out the gun for her. "But," he stopped, "please don''t use it unless you have to." Sophie''s eyes lit up; she hesitated for the briefest moment and then snatched it from him. She stared longingly down at the weapon in her hand and then her expression darkened and she threw it onto the ground. "It''s not fair. I can''t use it. Rank Restricted. Why must I always be so... powerless?" Bob nodded. He picked up the weapon. "I''m sorry Sophie. Don''t worry. I''ll protect you." "I want to protect myself." "Yes, yes I suppose you do. I know the feeling Sophie." "Are you going to do it then Robert?" "No Sophie. I''m not going to murder them all. But I''m going to try to stop that digger." "How will you do it?" "I don''t know." "What a terrible plan." "Yeah well, let me know when you think of something better." Sophie didn''t say anything. "That''s what I thought." Bob was in the mud. He was slithering around like an earthworm. Night after night of rain had basically waterlogged the whole area. It was mud all the way down. Or at least the water content was high enough that the system acknowledged his authority. He stopped. He was in position. He could feel her tunneling above him. Ready Bob? He checked his gun (he had it). He checked his magazine (seventeen metal slugs). He check the safety (off). He made sure he didn''t need to go to the bathroom. All set Bob. Nice Bob. It would be smooth and sweet. Dead simple. Step One: drop her straight down onto his position. Step Two: press the barrel of his gun against the back of her head. And Step Three: hiss, "don''t you try nothing." Okay, he''d improvise the catchphrase later, but high-level it was: drop, barrel, hiss. Drop, barrel, hiss. Got it? Showtime. "Mudfall" (yes he said it aloud. He liked saying it). The mud funneled, suddenly creating a pit under her feet. Bullseye, he''d got her. She''d been taking completely by surprise. She was falling. The mud was falling on top of her. She was disoriented. She couldn''t see what she was doing. Bob was ready. Bob was on-point. Bob knew the plan. Bob lived the plan. Drop, barrel, hiss. Drop, barrel, hiss. Bob had the gun out. Bob could see her through the mud. Bob was steering her into position. Easy now. Easy now. Snap. Everything went wrong immediately. Suddenly a sphere of mud was hurtled upwards at impossible speeds. Evening sunlight flooded down into the deep, dark shaft. Her ability was simply terrifying, but she landed poorly. She stumbled, tripped, groaned. She was the facing the other way. Now''s your chance Bob. Barrel her, barrel that mother-fucker. And then someone''s voice called down from above. "Anastasia, are you okay? We''re coming for you." Abort, abort. Bob dropped to the ground, barrel-rolled away and was just about to hiss down into the mud when: "is someone there?" Bob froze, gulped nervously, hid his pistol and turned around. He was wearing his trademark, well-meaning smile. Miraculously, the teenager girl, AKA "The Digger," seemed practically uninjured. The chances... Thank heavens for a soft, muddy landing. Bob reached, Bob reached: "I... I heard a cave-in. Yes! And I was... I was coming to investigate. And, I, I.... are you, are you injured?" Bob scanned the girl''s expression. Had she bought it? Bob''s acting was legendary. Come on, Bob. What are you saying? There''s no way she bought it. It was practically inconceivable. You arrived on the scene before she''d even gotten to her feet. "I know you." Crap. The gig was up. She was a fricking genius. How had she already figured out who he was? Would she attack? Would she call for backup? Bob''s good hand reached around his back. He was scratching his bottom or something. He was certainly not fingering the deadly pistol. This is it Bob, this is fricking it. "You''re the Muddy Gambler!" Bk 2 Chapter 25 - Minon of Systruk "You''re the Muddy Gambler." "What?" "Oh my god. The Muddy Gambler. Right in front of me. I must be dreaming. You have such bad boys vibes in person. Like I can totally feel your aura of dark energy." "What?" "Oh my god. You were totally awesome. I can''t believe you really painted yourself head-to-toe in mud? That''s like... art." "What?" "And I''ll never forget the way you said it. You know. The word. Sometimes I whisper it to myself at night. ''Again, again, again.'' Ah, it gives chills. Say it for me, please, just once. I''m begging." Bob blushed and ran a hand across his bald, muddy head. He looked down and muttered out, "Again." The girl practically swooned. "And the evil manager was totally quaking in his boots. And you stood up, and looked straight at me, and said, ''You''re all free now.''" "I remember you. You were the pretty girl on the other side of the table taking pictures." "He remembers me! The pretty girl, he says. I knew you were looking at me. No one believes me, but I knew. And now we''re together again. It''s just like I always imagined. Honest! I''ll show you ¨C I even edited myself into a picture with you. Do you want to see?" "Maybe later." "But what happened to your hair? I liked you better with hair. No, don''t get me wrong, you still look awesome. You just looked even more awesome with hair, if that''s even possible." "Fire-breathing dog. You know. Shit happens." Was he trying to act cool to impress this teenage girl? Shut up. It''s an irrepressible male instinct. There''s no fighting it. "That''s so awesome." She got it. "Anastasia, a pleasure to be... reunited." He held out a hand and she hugged him. She held on way too long, but Bob wasn''t complaining. "So, Anastasia, should I take us back up to the surface?" "You can do that?" "Well, turns out the mud has a thing for me." Now, it would have been really cool if Bob could platform up the ground beneath them and tower them towards the surface. It didn''t work that way. He couldn''t harden natural mud. That meant he actually needed to get inside the mud and use it like a current to push him forward. He didn''t think she''d enjoy it. He was wrong. "This is totally awesome." They were slithering together up through the mud. Bob''s max speed was in the single digits. "Hey, did you know I have an earth-clearing spell?" "Really? Is that so? I had no idea." "Don''t you think that suits your ability? We are so compatible!" "Yeah, I guess. I hadn''t thought of that. We are compatible, aren''t we?" "Totally!" They reached the top and emerged squelchingly onto the tunnel floor. They were drenched in mud. Bob didn''t mind. He was used to it and he needed it for his mud-monster bonus. Strangely Anastasia didn''t seem to mind either. Something was wrong with that girl and Bob didn''t know whether to be freaked out or delighted. The whole invasion troop was already assembled and waiting. A muscular, bald man in his early thirties looked like he was in-charge. He stepped forward and barked at the girl, "Anastasia, who''s that?" "It''s a secret." This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. "Anastasia, who the fuck is that?" "Fine Ali, I''ll give you a hint. He''s saved me twice now." "Dammit woman." "You''re so mean. I mentioned him a hundred times. It''s the Muddy Gambler." "The what?" "Oh my god, seriously? I even showed you his picture!" "You mean, the guy who rescued you in the fourth challenge? The one who somehow broke the whole casino just to save you, because he''d fallen in love with you at first sight?" "Yes! You do remember!" "No way in hell is that guy''s real." "Oh my god, why will no one ever believe me? Look." She pulled out her smartphone (that somehow still had charge) and beamed her wallpaper at everyone. "See?" It was a picture of her and Bob holding hands. She held up to Bob''s face so everyone could see the resemblance. Bob didn''t quite manage to smile. "I don''t believe my eyes. It is you." "Hello. Muddy Gambler here." Bob waved friendly. "How did you... Where..." The poor leader seemed to be struggling to make sense of it all. Bob was right there with him. "Don''t tell me you came looking for Anastasia?" Wow. Should Bob do it? It was like mana from heaven. They were giving him the perfect excuse. In one fell swoop, he could explain what he was doing here, where he''d come from; he could make himself relatable and sympathetic. It was a get-out-of-jail-free card. The only downside was Anastasia. And that might even be an upside. She was eighteen right. Six years wasn''t such a big difference. She was kinda cute. Bob looked down at the girl. Anastasia''s eyes were sparkling with pleasure and a pink blush had shaded her cheeks. Bob didn''t think he''d ever seen anyone look at him quite like that. No amount of money in all the world could buy eyes like that. "You came looking for me?" The girl grabbed Bob''s arm and snuggled closer. Somewhere Sophie was watching the monitors and cursing the shit out of him. "Sure, I mean, yeah, of course, or, well, see," Bob was sweating, "you might say, I happened to be in the neighborhood. The truth is... well, I live here." "What?" The man looked confused. "You live here, in the mud? Like an earthworm?" "Er... yeah, sure, you can think of it like that." "A mud-human, cool." A little boy''s voice sounded out. Anastasia had drifted off into her own little private world. She wore a dreamy smile and twirled her fingers through her long hair, while clutching onto Bob''s arm (no escape). Now and again she would whisper quietly to herself and Bob would just catch the words: "he came all the way for me." Bob grimaced. You mustn''t play with little girls'' hearts. His expression did not escape Ali''s attention. The older man eyed him up and down with an amused snarl. They were all friends here now. Ali slung an arm around Bob''s shoulder. "So Mr. Muddy Gambler. What''s your name?" Oh crap. Here it comes: "The name''s Robert Brown." "Robert," the man chewed on the name; Bob waited and hoped and prayed. "You mean like Bob then." "I strongly prefer to be called Robert." A couple of the adults looked between each other. Crap, crap, crap. "Now, you wouldn''t happen to be the Bob would you?" "Like I said, call me Robert." "You''re not Bob the Brown are you?" Mayday, mayday. The gig''s up. They know me. Or hold on, Bob the Brown? Who''s that? Bob didn''t think he''d ever heard that title before. But it had to be him right? That was just too on the nose. Noticing Bob''s confusion, the leader stepped forward and shared a system screen with him. Didn''t know you could share system screens.
System Leaderboard (simple)
  1. Bob the Brown (level 10, rank D)
  2. Paul of the Spear (level 10, rank D)
  3. King Cock (level 10, rank D)
  4. George the Golden (level 10, rank E/D)
  5. Cassandra Blade (level 9, rank E)
  6. Black Eye (level 9, rank E)
  7. The Blossom Princess (level 9 rank E)
  8. Kenshin Mushin (level 9, rank E)
  9. Asha Anansi (level 9, rank E)
  10. Serpent Sky (level 9 rank E)
I''m number one. And what the hell? The system couldn''t just assign him a random title like that. There needed to be meetings, agreements and processes. Bob the Brown. I mean that''s just... Bob the Brown. He rolled the sounds around in his mouth. Bob the Brown. You know that''s kinda good. I sorta like. It makes me sounds like a wizard. Not bad system, not bad at all. I''m going to have use that, system. The next time Bob got into fight he knew exactly what he was going to say. He''d give them a hard eye from under his hood and in his deepest wizard voice: "You cannot pass! I am Bob the Brown, a servant of the Sleeping Dark, wielder of the Mud of Egypt. The weapons of the enemy will not avail you, minion of Sys''truk. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass." "Fine. I''ll come clean. They call me: Bob the Brown, Arch Wizard of the Mud." "So that''s why you''re covered in mud? And why you live down there in the mud." A good number of the company aahed and nodded their heads like somehow everything had been explained. "Magic-training and all," Bob tapped his nose conspiratorially. And then someone else called out, "you wouldn''t be Lord Bob, would you?" "Pardon?" "I hadn''t thought of that," said Ali, stepping back and expanding Bob, "you know, Lord Bob. The million credit guy. From the Kill Bob quest." Jesus Christ. That''s what people are calling that quest? That is not reassuring. "Me? What? I... well, now hypothetically, hypothetically mind, if I said, ''maybe,'' how would you good people feel about it?" Someone twitched and the next second a projectile was hurtling towards Bob. Bk 2 Chapter 26 - Easy Promises He was Bob the Brown, Arch Wizard of the Mud. A measly thrown projectile was no threat to him. And was that, was that a pebble? A mere pebble? Bob spits on your lowly pebble. Said pebble boomed towards him like the Hammer of Thor. It was traveling faster than he''d imagined, faster than it ought to be traveling. He started to dodge. It was perilously close now. He was still dodging. He was going to make it right. Right? The pebble feathered past his left ear and cracked into the tunnel wall. The ceiling shook ominously. Bob didn''t need to see the crater to know he wouldn''t have survived that. This man was dangerous. Already Bob had whipped his pistol out and was training the barrel on the aggressor. He aimed and... Anastasia stepped in front of him. "Thomas! How could you! You might have killed him!" "I know. I''m trying to. Get out of the way, Anastasia. One million credits. Do you have any idea what we could do with that?" "Thomas, who''s in charge here?" The bald leader roared. "He''s a D-Ranker. You''ll get us all killed." "Ali there are eleven of us. He''s just one man. We can take him." "You''re as bad as them Thomas. This would make us nothing more than bandits." "One million credits, Ali. One fucking million." Bob slowed his breathing. He smoothed away that first jolt of fear and anger. He watched the little boy go strangely stiff and his father put a trembling hand on his little shoulder. He watched the old woman start to pray silently to herself. He caught the moment Ali''s neck tensed and his teeth clenched together. He didn''t want to fight these people. He wanted to believe in them. In a low voice that cut through the squabbling. "Don''t make me do this. Walk away. Please, I don¡¯t want to¡ªbut I will." Thomas was stalking nearer, one hand fishing around in his pocket. He wasn''t alone either. Some of the others were eyeing Bob with greedy, million-dollar eyes; they''d started fanning out, blocking off escape routes, reaching for weapons. Why wouldn''t they listen to reason? Blood, blood and death. Why did Sophie have to be right? He hated when Sophie was right. Kill or be killed, she had said. They were coming for him. Bob''s mind went cold. Cold and clear. His breath slowed. His mind sharpened. The battle meditation came over him. Seventeen bullets. Seventeen metal slugs of death. Five adult men. Three woman (not including Anastasia). A little boy and a grandmother. Ten enemies. Anastasia was begging him to be reasonable, promising that everything would be perfect. Easy promises. Thomas''s arm twitched. Bang. A pistol report. A stone clattered to the ground. The faintest streak of blood. The bullet had only grazed his arm. "Last chance Thomas." The leader, Ali, was floundering. It was a mishmash group of survivors, held together by fear and desperation. He shouted. He ordered them back. They wouldn''t listen. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air. The frenzy was in them. Who wouldn''t stake a little for a million credits? A million credits. The figure had a mythical significance. It was a promise of happiness, safety, freedom. Easy promises. And Bob didn''t hate them for it. He just wished it wasn''t so. So he tried again. One last time: "Don''t make me kill you." Ali screamed at everyone to scatter. He half-carried the grandmother away himself. Anastasia was crying and crying. The father lifted up his boy and hurried out of the tunnel. Many followed after, rushing to get away. "Stupid Thomas. Stupid, stupid. Robert saved me. We''re meant to be together. Why won''t they let us be together." They were coming. Their eyes were all steel and greed. Better to die for the dream than live without hope. Five of them. Thomas and company. They all looked like fighters. With that grizzled callousness of the human who''s killed his fellow. That shield against empathy and pity. Did Bob look like that? Did Bob''s eyes look so grey and empty? Ali called out to Anastasia. He was waiting at the tunnel entrance, the last to leave. "Anastasia, Anastasia." But the girl wouldn''t budge. She stayed right where she had been, right in front of her hero, sobbing her eyes out and bawling. Surely they wouldn''t attack her. Their companion. A crying teenager. Attack her? You mean like you were planning to do, eh, Bob? Oh yes, oh yes, they would. They will. They won''t hold back for her sake. A million credits Bob. One million. One more sacrifice? Ha, the greater good always wants more sacrifices. Bob had to get her clear. "Anastasia, go. Now." "Robert, Robert, Robert." "Go dammit." "I''m staying with you." "Anastasia, we barely know each other. Please, it''s dangerous here." "I''m staying." Boom. A sonic-wave of energy smashed into Bob. His head jarred. He felt blood dripping from his ears. He wanted to start shooting, but the stupid girl was standing between him and the enemy. "Anastasia, get out of the way!" Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The girl didn''t look so good. She''d taken the full-brunt of the sonic blast. She swayed. She stumbled. She fell down. A smarter man would have let her fall. Bob wanted to. Oh how he wanted to, to let her fall down to the ground and never see her again. Why hadn''t she run away? Why wouldn''t she listen? It was her fault. Her own fault. He didn''t though. Soft-hearted, mushy-brained, mud-dreamer that he was, he caught her and dived to the side, attacks whistling just behind. He rolled, he ducked, he got a hand down on the mud and a mud wall jumped up in front of them. Safe. At that moment, a projectile from Thomas missiled straight through the wall and practically skewered them both. Not safe. The power that man could squeeze into a pebble was mindboggling. Bob shifted positions, digging out a hollow space below the barricade. Anastasia, he conveyor-belted away, past the wall and to the tunnel side. Anywhere was safer than sitting beside the million-dollar bounty. Sixteen bullets. Five Rank-E enemies. It should have been easy. He should have slaughtered these guys. He would have too, if he hadn''t sacrificed Harry to the fire. For the greater good? Only now did Bob realise just how much he relied on the cloak. His whole combat style: his darting attacks, his daring escapes, his autonomous shield, they all depended on the mud mantle. And Bob wasn''t himself. He groaned as his body protested every motion. He hadn''t recovered. It couldn''t have been an hour since he was passed out and stretched over the back of a monster-cow like a sack of potatoes. If they somehow got him into close-combat range... An attacker sprinted forward. Bob shot. The man dodged with supernatural grace. He had a short blade in one hand. He lunged to the side, twisted his foot and... slipped. The mud under his feet had suddenly given way. Bang. Bob shot him in the leg through the mud wall. The man tried to get up, using his blade like a walking stick. Bang. Bob shot him in the other leg. He stayed down this time. One down. Four remaining. Thomas and a red-haired woman (the sonic attacker) peppered him from range. They were wasting their time. The mud ate away the sound energy and her attacks reached him as a low buzz. Thomas, on the other hand, hadn''t figured out that Bob was beneath the barricade and not behind it. His missile-pebbles sailed far over his head. The other two were trouble though. They both looked liked close-combat specialists and they were getting closer. A lean warrior with a spear and a heavy man braced behind a tower shield. They were working together, each covering the other. Bob tried shooting through the shield, but the bullet just ricocheted away. Not even a scratch. The shield was no mortal object. And the tank knew how to use it. The pair edged slowly forward, giving no angles, creeping ever closer. What options did Bob have? Twelve bullets left. A mudfall was high-risk. It takes minutes for someone to drown. They''d never leave him alone long enough. Think, Bob, think. Bait and switch. He fired a pot-shot at the red-haired woman. The tank got himself in the way at the last second. I knew you''d do that. Bob had already pivoted, firing two sharp bullets at the now-exposed spearman. The tank lazily stepped back and covered the attack. Bob had been read. I hate competent people. Bob was extending his awareness across the whole battlefield. He could feel every step ripple through the mud, but it took most of his concentration just to maintain the mud barricade. He couldn''t multicast. He wasn''t even sure it was possible. What he could do was increase the scope of his magical expression, making a single, more complex spell. Bob violently pulled the ground under the tank''s feet. The tank slipped, his shield clattered down as the man face-planted. Bang, bang, bang. The shield had magically reappeared in the man''s hand (system bullshit) and he caught the two slugs aimed for himself and the spearman. The red-haired woman wasn''t so lucky. The bullet sliced into her side. She crumbled down to her knees holding her chest. She wheezed and there was a sticky gurgle to her breaths. Bob felt her crumble down onto her hands and knees, blood trickling into the mud. The spearman rushed ahead. He leapt forward and bounded over the mud wall. He landed catlike, spear at the ready, eyes blazing and... stopped. The man looked left and right. He looked behind him. Had he gotten lost somewhere? Retrace your steps old boy. He''d approached the mud barricade straight on and then jumped over it. Did he get turned around? No that didn''t make any sense. "T, he''s not here." "Are you fucking kidding me? He just shot Amber." "T, I''m looking with my own eyes." Bang, Bang. The spearman actually managed to dodge the first shot. On a blind instinct, he''d thrown himself to the side, but the second nailed him in the hip and something cracked. The spear rattled down. "Underground," the man managed to rasp out. "For fuck''s sake, Lucas." Three down. Two left. Thomas had grouped up with the tank. He stayed well back in cover and was riddling the underground with those mighty pebbles of his. He''d gotten more scientific, executing a search pattern across the area. Things were looking dire. The tank had planted his feet and was watching the mud suspiciously. Bob tried a few shots, but the tank expertly deflected them. One of the ricochets did thump into the crippled swordsman, however. The poor man had been doing his best to crawl away. He groaned at the impact and stared daggers at his companion. Five bullets left. Only five. Bob was running out of time. Sooner or later Thomas would find his mark. But what chance did Bob have at defeating them from distance? The shieldsman was too skilled. Battles are all calculated risk. Bob started slithering forward. He hadn''t gotten two slithers when a pebble crashed down beside him, clipping his back leg. Bob fought not to scream. The slightest sound would give away his position. It would be all over. The pain shuddered through him. He opened his mouth and... shoved mud into it. The scream dying away in the wet liquid. He regained control of himself and undulated forward, wriggling through the mud. He was close. This could work. This might just work. "Robert, Robert, where are you? Answer me, Robert." Anastasia had woken up. And she was looking for him. Bob cursed under his breath. Stupid, teenage girls. They are the worst, the absolute worst. Why couldn''t she lay there and play dead like a sensible person? She was coming this way. She was throwing herself into danger. She was going to die. Bob decided. Bob decided. Call it arrogance. Call it stupidity. But he decided. "Stay the fuck away woman. Do you want to get killed?" He shouted out and at the same moment, threw up a wave of mud, battering Thomas and the tank, and doing his best to sweep Anastasia away from the battleground. Snap. In a single breath, all the mud had disappeared. Redirected away and down. The whole scene was made instantly clear. Thomas crouching behind the shieldsman, Anastasia puttering about, Bob lying on his stomach. "There you are Robert." Anastasia could see Bob. Bob could see Anastasia. Anastasia could see Thomas. Thomas could see Anastasia. Bob could see Thomas and... Thomas could see Bob. Thomas with a pebble in his left hand and a mean glint in his eye. "I hate teenage girls." Bk 2 Chapter 27 - The hero of her dreams Things were going badly. Things always go badly. No good deed goes unpunished. Call it Reverse Karma. Why hadn''t he let the stupid fangirl die? He''d stuck his neck out for the girl and this was how she repaid him. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. He was going to die like this, like a worm on his belly in the mud, to a pebble-throwing mercenary called Thomas. Oh the shame. Thomas grinned manically. One million credits can do that to a man. It was probably the happiest day of his life. He leveled his stone, taking careful aim. No rush. No rush at all. Bob shot wildly. Somehow, some way, he had to stop Thomas from firing. Bob mashed the trigger. Bang, bang, bang. The metal slugs spiraled at Thomas, each riding on the flash of gunpowder fire. The shieldsman braced himself and three bullets pinged off his shield. Where was Harry when you needed him? Where was a good, heat-seeking mud dart when you needed it? Thomas released. The pebble shuddered forward. Bob squeezed the trigger. Then again. Then again. Bang, Bang, click, click, click. The magazine was empty. He kept pulling the trigger over and over, unthinkingly, instinctively. Crack. The last bullet collided head-on with the pebble. He''d actually done it. He''d stopped the missile. He was saved. The metal exploded into fragments as the pebble shoved its way through. No way. Shrapnel hailed down on Thomas and the shieldsman. A cloud of dust, mud and metal. The pebble was speeding towards him. Boom. "Am I hit? Am I hit?" Bob patted down his chest, his thighs, his head. There was no pain. There was no injury. Wait. There was something sticky. Something metallic-smelling and red. Bob gagged. Blood. There was a lot of blood. He''d been hit. He was bleeding out. He was going to die. He was going to die. "Robert," a weak voice called out to him. The dust was starting to settle. There was a black shape just in front of him. He probed forward with a shaking hand. He felt something. Something warm and soft, something human. He squeezed the person''s hand. He squeezed Anastasia''s hand. "You''re going to be alright Anastasia. Don''t worry." There was a lot of blood. It was pooling around her. She looked small now. Even smaller than before. Young and fragile. Overflowing with hopes and dreams and promise. Bob knelt over her. "Anastasia, don''t worry. I''m here. You''re safe." "Robert," she said again. Bob understood. He nodded his head. "I''m here. Don''t worry, Anastasia. Don''t worry," Bob''s voice was cracking, he was trying to look reassuring, but tears were streaming down his face. "You''ll be fine. It''s nothing. A scratch." It was not nothing. It was not a scratch. Her whole chest was caved in. It was a miracle she could talk at all. She had should died long ago. "Robert, do you really think I''m pretty?" Dammit, that''s what she asked him at the very end. Wasn''t there something else to say. Teenager girls really are insufferable. "Anastasia," he started, but his voice caught, "Anastasia," he pushed back a few strands of her hair that had strayed out of place, "yes, I think you''re very pretty," his voice failed him again "very... pretty." She died right there. Right in front of him. She was smiling. She looked happy. It didn''t make any sense. Nothing made sense. Bob''s mind was a wreck, a swirl of confused and broken thoughts. It didn''t make sense. Bob stood up. He stumbled down. His leg was dripping with blood where Thomas had grazed him. He couldn''t put weight on it. Bob pushed himself up. The shieldsman had caught a face full of shrapnel and was rolling on the floor. He''d never see again. Thomas''s right arm was blooded. His throwing arm. A sliver of the bullet must have stayed on course. The man picked up a stone with his left hand and tried to force it into his right. The stone dropped out on to the floor. No more throwing stones for you. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Bob staggered forward. He had a white dagger in his hand. Thomas backed away. He tripped. He crabbed backwards as fast as he could. Bob staggered forward. The battlefield was mayhem and ruin. Craters, blood, weapons, wounded calling out for mercy or just moaning with animal pain. Thomas turned around, scrambled up and started to run. Ruff! At the tunnel entrance was a golden retriever. A golden retriever with a red backpack. And sitting on that red backpack like a saddle was a little boy. A little boy with a big grin and a shiny scout whistle around his neck. George had arrived. Thomas froze. He eyed the dog and his rider. Then he looked back at Bob, still staggering forward, like a zombie with that misty, white dagger in his hand. Thomas decided he''d rather take the dog. "Out of the way." George opened his mouth. There was a crackling thrum. The tunnel suddenly grew uncomfortably warm and orange shadows danced across the walls. The dog hadn''t attacked, only hinted at the menace of his attack, but Thomas fell to pieces. Bob staggered forward. Bob had caught up. Thomas was cowering as his feet. As he should. Bob raised the white dagger. This was the end. Blood for blood. Don''t make me kill you, he had said it, hadn''t he? Why hadn''t he listened? The end. The end of all things. George stepped between them. The dog was blocking his master. Bob screwed up his face. He scowled at the dog. "Heel!" He shouted. The dog disobeyed him. "Heel!" The dog disobeyed. "George, he killed her. She wasn''t supposed to die. It''s all pointless." The dog stayed put. Bob started to beg, "George, you''ve got to let me. I''ve got to do it. I won''t be able to live with myself." The dog didn''t move. "Dammit George. Dammit George. I can''t just do nothing." Bob''s strength failed him. He toppled down. He was on his knees. On his stomach. The world crushes down on Atlas''s back. I always end up here don''t I? Beaten down. Lying in the mud. Pathetic and powerless. Why do I always end up here? Heroes are made from the dust, just like mortals. George whined and started licking at the wound on Bob''s leg. Bob was going to pass out. The world was greying, losing focus. He was drifting. Drifting away. But not yet. Not yet. He didn''t want to go just yet. He felt like he was on the edge of something. And he didn''t want to lose this clarity. This understanding. Because he had been wrong. He had been wrong from the very beginning. Why hadn''t he seen it? Why don''t we ever see anything until it''s too late, until we''ve paid for it? He had only thought abut how to drive them off. How to get rid of them. He had been afraid of them. Enemies. Strangers. And he was right to be afraid. But that wasn''t enough. That wasn''t reason enough. These people had come here for a reason. They were survivors. They were victims. And he had the power to help them. He had the strength. He could do it. He ought to do it. To step up. To lead. He saw Anastasia lying there. Her soft eyes and the dark, empty hole where her chest had been. Her heart. He remembered the way she looked at him. Like he was someone worth admiring. The hero of her dreams. Her savior. He wasn''t though. He was a damn fool, weak and lazy and cowardly. But maybe he could be. Maybe he could be that person she''d seen in him. And probably he would fail. And probably he would lose his way. But that was no reason not to try. Failure is no argument against effort. He dragged himself up a little. Just enough to see the people''s faces. There were only five of them left. Strong, bald Ali and next to the bespectacled father watching his little boy, and off to side, the grandmother with a walker and a middle-aged, housewife-looking woman. To Bob''s eyes, they looked afraid. Hopeless really. Their strongest members lay slaughtered around them. Outside, the bandit king was hunting for scalps. And inside, was Bob the Brown, Arch Wizard of the Mud, Lord of Earth, Mr. Number One. Whom their company had attacked, unprovoked and with murderous intentions. What hope did they really have? And then Bob''s eyes fell on the little boy. He was smiling and laughing. It was strange and sweet to hear the little boy laughing so. He was stroking George''s fur in that clumsy, childlike way. The boy had been saved. George had saved him. In a way Bob never could. And Bob too couldn''t help but smile a little. George was always two steps ahead of old Bob wasn''t he? George always knows best. These people, they wanted a refuge, a safe place, a homeland. And he had one. He had one. Had he really meant to bar the gates and throw them back out into the cold world? Well he would do better now. He would follow George''s lead. He called up his settlement tab and offered citizenship to each of them. Their eyes glazed over as they received the message. They all looked stunned. Why, the father even started to cry. He had to push up his glasses so he could better wipe away the tears. His little boy ran up to him and asked, "Daddy, can we live here? I want to play with the dog more." The father choked up. But he was smiling. He was smiling through it. His eyes had a happy, hopeful glint that Bob had never seen in them. Bob had done that. That was Bob''s work. "Yes, George. We sure can." "Thanks Dad," and the boy George ran off to play with the dog George. Bk 2 Chapter 28 - Hairy Cream They all came over to Bob. They thanked him. They thanked him again. They apologized. They helped him to his feet. He was practically catatonic, barely able to grunt and groan in their direction. Then they found the health patches he carried in his back pocket. Bob was suddenly feeling much better. It was a drug-induced illusion of course. The health patches didn''t work like they used to. But enough of them still numbed you to the pain. Anyway it was better than passing out and choking on your own vomit. More than the wounds though was the exhaustion, mental and physical, poisonous and traumatic. Everything Bob had done and seen. It was too much, too much all together. He needed to lie down somewhere and sleep. Propped up on Ali''s shoulder, Bob hobbled out of the cave and into the sunset. The red glow of the dying sun staining the endless grasses. Sophie was waiting outside. She was tapping her foot and looking impatiently at the tunnel entrance. You''re got to hand to the woman, she really has grace. To arrive last, after all danger and any opportunity to help had long since disappeared, and somehow still behave like she was the aggravated party, that takes a special kind of dignity. They don''t make women like that anymore. "Sophie, you made it? I almost thought you weren''t coming." "Did I not warn you they would attack you? And did you listen? No. Nobody listens to poor Sophie. You spent all your time flirting with that girl." "Sophie, that girl is dead. Dead saving me. I won''t have you speak of her like that." Sophie fell silent. She bit her lip. She eyed Ali, who was propping up Bob. She eyed little George, who had climbed up on George''s back again. "What are you going to do Robert?" "What I should have done from the beginning. Welcome them." "You made them all citizens?" "Yes, Sophie I did. I want to help them." She looked conflicted. He could see she didn''t agree. But in the end, she accepted it. "You look appalling, Robert. I can''t leave you alone for five minutes without you running off and doing sometime stupid. Stupid and dangerous." "Sophie. you know me so well." "I suppose you better lie down. Give him to me." Bob was transferred to Sophie, who muttered something about him being fat. Nothing like a touching reunion between old friends. Bob clued Ali into the reduced shipping cost, transferred him ten thousand credits for any present needs, and told him he''d be back soon and that George would keep them all safe in the meantime. Ali scoffed: "George? That golden fluff-ball? He doesn''t look like he could take down a rabbit." "That there is George the Golden." "You''re pulling my leg." "Ali, he''s stronger than I am." "You''re pulling my leg." "Don''t get on his bad side Ali. Even I''m a little afraid of him." "You''re pulling my leg." Bob only smiled wickedly and shrugged his shoulders. Ali looked appraisingly at the golden retriever. The golden retriever who was chasing the little boy around and barking, while the boy laughed his head off and blasted his whistle. Ali tensed his bicep. He gazed at the bulging muscle and then back at the golden-furred dog. He shook his head and sighed. There are hard truths in this world. The five aggressors had been tied up and put under guard. They were all wounded pretty badly and wouldn''t be trying anything soon. Thomas, in particular, though the least injured among the group, was utterly traumatized. Every time he heard George bark, he shivered and curled up in a ball. He would need extensive therapy and it probably wouldn''t be enough. Sophie carried Bob out of sight (can''t be too trusting) and over to the secret trapdoor. Next came the stairs. Bob really regretted not putting in an elevator. It was a long and uncomfortable walk down. Not made any more comfortable by Sophie''s constant complaining. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "You have once again succeeding in muddying me. It''s everywhere. How the stuff sticks! And I had just stepped out of the shower... Who designed this hovel? No elevator and dimly-lit stairs. Did the architect not know that people must live in this hole... You are so fat. I can barely support your enormous weight... And what on earth was your plan when you decided to bring the girl back up to the surface, straight into the arms of her companions? That girl looked like she would have followed you into a dragon''s mouth. Why not just bring her back to the apartment? That would have been the end of it. Sometimes I wonder how you are still alive... You stink of mud. I hate the smell of mud. And you always, always stink of it. Would it be so painful to wipe away the slime now and again?" Bob kept telling himself that saying these things was Sophie''s way of showing him that she cared. He almost managed to believe it. They reached the bedroom and Sophie deposited him unceremoniously onto the bed. She marched off, declaring that she was going to have to take a shower this very moment. It''s all because she cares. It''s all because she cares. Bob stretched back. He''d made it. At long last. After an eternity of struggle and hardship, here he was, in his feather bed. He moaned with pleasure. This here was the pinnacle of bedroom comfort, the fluffy-cloud embrace of a blue sky, the delicious softness, the serenity, the bliss of dreams. Now he only wished he''d had the strength to shower and change first. Because every moment he lay there, he was soiling the pristine, white sheets. His shirt clung to him with some satanic mixture of sweat, mud and dried blood. And he did not have the strength to pull it off him. Thankfully, sleep is the grand conqueror, the conqueror of kings and lions and little fishes. Sleep conquered Bob. He slept like the mud.
Many, many hours later, Bob rose from his bed. He felt refreshed. He felt renewed. Thank heavens for a rank D body. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and started ambling towards the bathroom. He walked straight into a wall. What the hell? Nursing his nose, "I don''t remember a wall here." Bob rubbed his eyes. His analytical mind booted up. Update needed. Last update: minus seven years, four months, twenty-three minutes. Bob clicked ignore. His mind grumbled into drive. It was a wall alright. A brick wall. Brown and earthy. Some miscreant had set it up right in front of Bob''s ensuite bathroom. Villains. Everybody knows the first thing a man needs to do upon waking up is use the bathroom. Bob deliberated. He couldn''t climb the wall¡ªit reached up past the top of his doorframe. He couldn''t go under the wall (stupid floor). He could maybe squeeze his way past. He would squeeze his way past. It was closer than it ought to have been. Maybe Sophie had a point. Maybe he was getting fat. Bob you are not fat. That''s all muscle weight. Muscle weight, right? Bob did his business. He showered. He brushed his teeth. He found a tin of "Hairy Cream" by the sink, with a note from Sophie saying, "please Robert, for the good of humanity." Bob applied a dollop to his shiny, bald head and rubbed it into the scalp. Luxurious fields of brown, curly hair sprouted up. Bob smiled. And now for the beard, a wizard''s only as good as his beard. Bob''s scooped up a whole handful of the white cream and layered it over his chin, above his lip, around his throat. He would put Gandalf to shame. He would have the king of beards. The wizard of beards. Nothing happened. Was he using it wrong? He turned the tin over. On the bottom, under a list of ingredients and a firm warning against consumption, were the words: "a man must earn his beard." Bob was appropriately ashamed of himself. He washed away the remaining cream and started for the kitchen. Except... there was the wall. The shower had washed away the mental dust and this time when he looked at the wall, he thought he recognized it. That there was Harry Mud in the mud. George''s fully powered fire breath had over-baked Bob''s dear companion. "Harry? Oh Harry? Is that you? Are you still in there? Dear, dear Harry." The brick wall stood silent and proud. "I''m sorry I didn''t recognize you. You look... different than I remember you. No, no, not in a bad way. Thicker. Harder. More inflexible. All complements of course." The brick wall stood silent and proud. "Don''t be angry, Harry. I really hadn''t forgotten you. You should''ve seen how weak old Bob was without you covering his back. Time to get you out of there, old chum." Bob sat cross-legged across from his friend and tried to figure out what to do. If Harry had been a person or a piece of old cloth, he would have been long-dead. Flash-fire cremations will do that to you. But Harry wasn''t just some rag Bob had picked up off the street. He was a gift from the system. An essential part of Bob''s path. To completely destroy a person''s companion object... That ought to be impossible for a Rank E canine (even George). And if Harry was alive, there had to be some way to save him. And Bob had pretty got idea about what needed doing. He filled up a glass of water and threw it on Harry. "There you are, old chap, drink up." He didn''t know what he had expected to happen. What actually happened was that the water dribbled down and puddled on the floor. "Come on, boy, drink. It''ll do you good." Bob filled up his glass and tried again. The same result. Fired mud-brick is pretty water-repellent. Bob downed a glass himself (refreshing!) as he pondered what to do. "You want more boy? Lots more?" Bob pulled out the shower head and twisted the nob up to full power. A pressurized stream of hot water jetted into the wall face. The brick got a bit wet. Ninety-nine percent of the water just slid down and started soaking the whole area with brown-tinged water. Bob''s beautiful, custom-designed master bedroom... For Harry, Bob, for Harry. After a couple minutes, Bob twisted off the water and put his hand against Harry. There was no response. No sudden awakening. No glorious resurrection. Mud brick stayed mud brick. Bob frowned and bit his thumb. There''s no way that burst of fire caused irreversible, chemical changes in Harry''s makeup, is there? How do you get batter out of cake again? You don''t, Bob. You don''t. Bk 2 Chapter 29 - The Death Default George had caked old Harry. Harry was all cake. But Harry wasn''t supposed to be cake. He was suppose to be batter. Rich, smooth chocolate batter. And so the age old question, how do you get batter out of cake? No, Bob there''s no time for breakfast. Think about your friend. Now Bob I don''t want to say this. There''s never really a good time to say this. But don''t you think Harry might be dead? Like dead dead. You know, dead dead-dead. Maybe you''re just supposed to take better care of your companion object. It''s like that egg-baby they make you look after in American high schools. You only get the one egg. Crack it and it just proves you''re a shitty father. You don''t get another egg, Bob. Dammit Bob. Listen to yourself. Harry''s right there. Harry, our Harry. We owe Harry. You owe Harry. Yes. Bob did owe Harry. Bob owed Harry a lot. Harry was the good cloak. Harry had stepped up. On that dark night of the soul. The night of the rising of the mud magician. When Bob was crumbled in the mud and couldn''t even raise a hand in his own defense. Harry had stepped up. Harry had saved George. No, this was personal. This was serious. Bob didn''t wanted a replacement cloak. He wanted Harry. Bob wasn''t going to be the man that abandoned his friends, especially when they needed him. He''d promised himself he''d be better. And that started today. He puffed out his chest. He leveled his gaze. He clapped a clenched fist against his heart. And then he shouted for all the world to hear: "I vow, under the eyes of the system that watches over all things, by the name of Bob the Brown, Arch Mage of the Mud, that I shall not leave this spot until my friend and companion, Harry Mud be saved and restored to his former glory." Bob had a silver tongue. He really knew how to create a scene. That could have been straight out of a book. Ping! Bob started sweating. He had a bad feeling about that ping. That had been an unfriendly ping, a malicious ping. Bob could tell at this point. He could read the system tone of voice. "Now, good old system buddy, we''re buddies right? Before we do anything rash, I''ll just say that I meant that all in a metaphorical vein. You know flavor text, background music. I''ll never give up and I''ll do my best. You know, empty, meaningless platitudes, that native speakers know to just brush off and ignore. You get me right, system. You get me?"
Ability Activated - Oath Oath - Leave Me Not Bob the Brown vows not to leave his spot before he has completely healed his companion object. Penalty - Unspecified (defaults to Death)
"A death default? What mad-hat developer coded that in? That has got to be a bug. Let me just open a ticket for you, Mr. System. We''ll get this fixed up in no time. And please refrain from posting about this in the forums. "
Penalty - Death
"Really? Really system." There''s no justice in this world. Entirely inevitably, at that very moment, Bob was struck by an overwhelming desire to stand up and stretch his legs. His legs pulsed and itched with restless energy. His heart rate was up. He was anxious. And we all know what happens we a man gets anxious, he needs to use the bathroom. Yes, yes, he just went. So what? You can''t really argue with your own body, can you? If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The system was magnanimous and noble in its intentions and interpretations. Wasn''t it? Nobody could imagine Bob had been referring to this individual spot on the ground, i.e. the narrow space on the bathroom floor occupied by his buttocks at this particular moment. When he had had obviously meant to imply the whole house, pardon, the whole city, well might as well say it, planet Earth. The system understood that, right? All the same, Bob did not stand up. He did not uncurl his legs. He made no sudden movements. Death by default. Death on a technicality. Nobody wants that carved into their gravestone. Bob stayed put. Might as well get to work then. Harry was more than a cloak. He was bonded to Bob. They could share mana at a distance. If Bob wanted to go looking for Harry, the road lay inside himself. Bob breathed out. Bob breathed in. Remember the silence. Breathe. Remember the silence. Breathe. Bob''s breathing began to slow. His exhales lengthened and lengthened. He felt the tension slipping away. The world was fading back. He was reaching the empty-mind. Meditation came to Bob easily these days. At first, he''d been disappointed in his underwhelming second ability, but it had proved itself again and again. The calm. The clarity. The sense of time slowed. The great enemy is always oneself. And the great victory is always over oneself. To breathe in and breathe out. To hear the world, his heart, to step away from everything and be the sky, that empty space which contains all things. Bob listened to the emptiness. The music of nothingness. The deep place. He remembered Harry. He remembered the feeling of Harry. He remembered the expression of their bond, that space in his heart, that invisible binding between himself and his cloak. He looked for it. Slowly. As though time were a thing that did not flow, but expanded across all space all at once. And when he didn''t find it, he kept looking. He broadened his search. He wandered the mental landscaped. And, but, he found it... The bridge between himself and his cloak. It was different than he remembered, sure, thiner, colorless, quiet and shadowed, but not lost. Not lost. Harry was still alive. Bob tried to follow the passage. It was difficult. There was no light at the end. Harry''s light was dimmed. It was fading. Bob would start going, but lose himself in the in-between and suddenly arrive back at the beginning. He would start again and again and finally, he reached that place at the end of the way. He found something. Not something you see with your eyes, just the hint of another being, that brush of consciousness, the presence of a mind, a personality. He called out to it. He called out to Harry. There was no answer. So he stretched out a mental finger and reached for his cloak. There was nothing and yet, somehow, an impression, an impression of something sleeping, sleeping deep and dreamlessly. Harry was trapped inside himself. But Harry was the mud, wasn''t he? And that wall was all hard brick, not a drop of mud to it. So where was he? What was Harry? Because now that Bob considered the matter, Harry was something above and beyond pure substance. He could shift between soft fabric, dripping liquid and hardened solid. He was a consciousness, a soul if you will, something that inhabits matter. How did Harry move then? How did he control himself or change forms? Magic. But magic is not that thing they write about in stories. Some unexplainable mystery. Some arbitrary power. Magic is a gift of the system. There are rules. There are principles. There are grand laws. Harry does not sit above these things. So, riddle me this, what is Harry''s real ability? And then it hit Bob. It was so obvious: "the mantle of mud magician." Harry could mud-bend. Harry shared Bob''s ability to manipulate the mud. But since Harry himself inhabited a body of mud, he could also control his own form. An ability he had lost when George brick-toasted him. Now, if Bob could somehow convert that brick wall back into a pile of mud, Harry ought to regain his authority over it. Harry could yet be saved. But then all magic is bounded by the conceivability principle. Harry could somehow shift between liquid mud and solid semi-brick. What Harry could do, Bob ought to be able to do too. The world is but a canvas to our imagination. If Bob played his cards right, not only would he get Harry back, he would earn himself some sweet new powers. "Bob, fetch me my MQA hat." Magical Quality Assurance on the scene. Bk 2 Chapter 30 - The Mud Scientist
Story: Learn how to soften hardened mud Requirements: Acceptance Criteria:
Bob ran down the list: Bob opened up the system shop. It was a comfort to know he had the interverse''s premier marketplace at his fingertips. He could sit here for years and never want for food or materials. The power of being connected. A dollop of warm mud splattered down in front of him. Because yes, you could buy mud on the system shop (of course!). And yes, Bob had gone for a high-grade, volcanic ash mud, sourced from Lake Myvatn in northern Iceland. Only the best. "Ah, just get a whiff of those earthy tones." It was a deep black color, smooth and fine, almost silky. "A beautiful mud, if I do say so myself." He rolled the mud into a perfect sphere. "A pleasure, Lady Mud Sphere, a real pleasure to make your acquaintance. I''ve heard so many things. Now if I may..." Bob let his awareness bleed into the mud. He penetrated deep in her core. The lady blushed brown. He was not a gentlemen about it. He was a connoisseur after all. See mud isn''t one thing, no, no, no, it''s not water or iron. Mud is a categorical term: a semi-fluid mixture of water and fine particulate matter. Now your average forest mud puddle is composed of soil, silt, clay, maybe a spattering of organic matter, but our Lady Mud Sphere was something else. Suspended inside her were tiny shards of glass, little fragments of crystal, and solidified lava dotted with frozen bubbles. She was a beauty now, our Lady Miss Mud Sphere. Bob poked around. Just getting the lay of the land. Lady Mud Sphere squirmed helplessly. Now for some reason mud-bending always gets a bad rep (heaven knows why). In truth, it is rather an enlightened and philosophical exercise. Because what does it mean to control the mud? No I''m not being pedantic. Mud is a composite. So what did Bob actually control? The solvent (water)? The solute (fine particles)? Or the solution itself (the mud)? Time to put it to the test: "Prepare yourself, Lady Mud Sphere." I''m not ready, please have mercy. "Commit yourself to the system. To the mud father, the mud son, and the holy mud. Out of the mud are we taken and unto to mud must we return." Mud father protect me. Bob''s hand pulsed with invisible power. Mana coursed into Lady Mud Sphere as Bob attempted to will the water out of her. Nothing happened. He had banged up against the principles of magic. He could shape and form his mana in any way he could coherently imagine. But he had to understand the method. "Very well. You have forced my hand. Remember I never wanted any of this." Bob unsheathed his trusty comb. Mud son have mercy. Water molecules were many, many times smaller than the particles suspended within them. Bob narrowed his comb''s teeth. "You did this to yourself." He swiped the mental comb at Lady Mud Sphere. The water passed easily through the comb, but the fine particles were trapped in the teeth and dragged along. The mud instantly dissociated. On one side a pile of black ash. On the other a stream of water dripping through the cracks in Bob''s fingers. Lady Mud Sphere was no more. She had returned to the holy mud. So that had sort of worked? Kinda. But it definitely wasn''t Harry''s method. For one, it was an all-or-nothing operation, mud or no mud. For another, there was this awkward water side-product business. Bob didn''t remember water spilling out of Harry every time he hardened. Was Bob going in the wrong direction here? He was being too blunt-object, wasn''t he? Not to mention the sky-high mana expenditure required to physically rip the particles out of their happy union. Bob had to think like a scientist. Science is a hunter''s game. Ninety-nine percent of the job is setting up a situation where nature does your work for you. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Bob tapped his chin and considered. How would a non-mud magician (a muddle) go about baking a mud brick? You could just leave it out in the sun a couple days. That''d do it. And how did that work? Well the water would slowly evaporate away, letting the suspended particles gradually gather together into rigid, energy-efficient structures. Bob required more experimental subjects, cough, volunteers. Another mud-gloop fell down from the sky. ¡°Baroness Mud Sphere, welcome to my humble laboratory.¡± "What does MQA stand for, you ask?" ¡°You don¡¯t need to know that, Miss Baroness. You have nothing to worry about. We are very humane in our treatment of mud here." ¡°What? The Mud Quarantine and Annihilation Authority¡ªwho told you that name? Lies.¡± "What¡¯s that smear of black ash on my hand? Well, I¡­¡± Bob wiped away his hand. ¡°I might have burned my toast this morning. It¡¯s nothing.¡± "Stop with the questions. I am the mud scientist here. I shall be asking the questions.¡± "Don¡¯t bother screaming. No one can save you from the Mud Scientist." Bob reformulated his water comb into a spherical (and evil) net, with which he encircled the poor, trembling Baroness. He flicked the mana switch. Mana pulsed into her helpless body. Mana that turned into energy, that turned into heat. The mud started to buzz with energy. Particles jittered around, flying this way and that. When a water molecule came to the netting, it passed straight through, shedding off and flowing out, but the suspended particles couldn''t pass through and bounced back. Bob started to slowly squeeze the net, forcing the mud to shrink and fill up empty spaces left by the water. Crack. Baroness Mud Sphere was... alive (barely). Bob Brown, Mud Scientist of the Mud Quarantine and Annihilation Authority grinned to himself. The crack was unfortunate. A result of uneven pressure and unskillful application. But the results spoke for themselves. He held within his hand a mud brick sphere. The trick was not to completely drain the water content. To leave just enough that the system (grudgingly) considered the sphere as mud. And thus under the authority of the mud magician. Good job, Bob. Story completed. An MQA triumph. Er... Bob hate to be the bearer of bad news, but are you sure you properly read the ticket description? Yeah, learn how to harden mud.
Task: Learn how to soften hardened mud
Yes, Bob had misread the ticket (damn misleading phrasing). You''d be surprised how frequently this happens. Not just to Bob, but to all people in all places. Yes, you''d be surprised how many mistakes come from not reading a thing properly. Say reading innuendos into perfectly innocent piece of fiction (shame on you!). Softening hardened mud sounded a good deal harder than hardening softened mud. Or was it softer? Very well then. He required a test subject. He needed a zero-water content mud brick (c.f. Harry). "My apologies, Baroness. For the Mud." Bob squeezed out the last drop of waters. Baroness Mud Sphere was no more. The mud had gone out of her. How do you turn a hardened mud sphere into living mud? Ah yes Bob, the immortal question: how do you bring back the dead? Bob tried dipping the corpse into the water. The water made a passing attempt to get inside. Maybe if he left her there for two or three days, she might have gotten soggy enough for the system to identity it has mud. That was no good. Bob would have to force the problem. "Give me my comb!" Bob made to slash water into the mud sphere. It didn''t work. And it didn''t work in a way he hadn''t expected. His mental mana-comb literally didn''t affect the water. It passed straight through. And yet he had no problem combing water inside the mud. Inside the mud. Bob always knew he was a philosopher at heart. Bob had plumbed the secrets of Authority. Another grand law Bob? Already? We haven''t finished carving the old ones onto stone tablets.
The Law of Authority: authority defines what mana can interact with
Bob had no authority over pure water, so his mana couldn''t interact with it. Well laws are made to be loopholed. And like he always said, back to the mud. "Welcome, Marquise Mud Sphere. I think you''ll find your accommodations comfortable." Bob didn''t wait for an imagined response. Instead he seized control of the Marquise''s body. He forced her to wrap herself around the Baroness''s hardened corpse and then he submerged them both into the puddle. And no, this isn''t an exotic form of torture. This is mud-science (is there a difference to your average mud-joe?). Bob had an idea. One-way valves. You can think of them as funnels. The king of shapes. A one-way water net around the Marquise and another around the Baroness. Water could only flow into the Marquise from the puddle and into the Baroness from the Marquise. And now for Bob''s favorite part, "Igor flick the switch!" Mana sparked through the Marquise. It was too much. She started to bubble and steam. There was no holding back. The water inside her boiled, desperate to expand and spread out. Only one road was open and it lead straight into the corpse of the Baroness. The water cut through the solidified mud, dissolving bonds and freeing up mud particles. Water from the puddle was sucked inside the Marquise as nature fought to balance the water vacuum. It was over in less than a second. "It''s alive!" Bob had done it. "Behold my masterpiece. The dead returned to the living." The monster opened its eyes and stared at him. It was the Dark Baroness. "What have I done? What have I created?" The mud twitched at him. Bob slashed his mental comb through the abomination. Both Baroness and Marquise crumbled into ashes. Back to the mud with you. By order of the Mud Quarantine and Annihilation Authority. Bk 2 Chapter 31 - The Experiment "Herr Doktor, everything is as you wish." "Good Igor, good. You have done well." The Mud Scientist rubbed his hands together as he took in The Experiment. The Experiment was unimaginably complex (relatively simple). The work of several lifetimes (hours). The amalgamation and ultimate consequence of generations of scientific research (one man''s ravings). The ritual components were expensive, rare and myriad (largely superfluous). The Mud Scientist rubbed his hands together as he took in The Experiment. The price tag was pushing a hundred thousand credits. The whole space had been redesigned and remodeled. At the bottom of a concrete bunker sat a brick wall (Harry). Said brick wall was encased in several coatings of different muds. Said wall-mud combination was buried beneath several feet of water. And all this was connected to the control room with a thick tube of mud wiring. Every experiment needs a big, brown switch. The Mud Scientist rubbed his hands together as he took in The Experiment. Everything was ready. Every last piece in place. Mana batteries at full power. Blast shield check, safety goggles check, lab coat check. How could the Mud Scientist content himself with animating petty mud spheres? The mission of science is to dissect God himself. To tie him down to the operating table, cut him open and see how he works. Life, consciousness, the soul, Harry had died and now he would live again. He was strapped into the electric chair, without life, awaiting the divine spark that would reanimate him. The divine spark of science. The Mud Magician frowned to himself as he gazed down upon The Experiment. That was no test subject, no guinea pig or lab rat. That there was his friend, his companion and mantle, the good cloak. The Mud Magician had come for his mantle. Let the Gods themselves, the natural order, the shadow of the Reaper stand in his way and still the Mud Magician would come. The Mud Magician, he that commands the sleeping darkness. He of the great mud wave and the mud armor and the judgment mud. The Mud Magician frowned to himself as he gazed down upon The Experiment. The world was very quiet. And then the Mud Magician began his chant. His deep, dark voice echoing around the chamber. Mana began to course down the mud wires. "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble." The magic phrases rolled through the air, crackling with power. "Round about the cauldron go; In the muddy earth we''ll throw." The control room shook. The blast shield rattled. The mud waited. "Clay that in the flame did bake; Now with life we shall awake." It was too much. The magic was too powerful. He was losing control. He couldn''t keep this up. "Dormant cloak, with magic rife; Boil, bubble and spring to life." The Mud Magician staggered. This was the magic of the gods. He tried to force out the words. "Double, double toil and¨C" Silence. The chanting was cut away. But see the Mud Magician stays on his feet. He is defiant. His eyes closed in concentration. His hand upon the mud. The magic is spiraling through him. He needs no chant. Chants have no magical import after all. They''re just the (distracting) dramatic flare of a good spell. The Mud Scientist rubbed his hands together as he took in The Experiment. He had hit the switch. Mana was flowing down the wire. Two one-way (invisible) barriers pulsed in position. Water could flow into the mud and from the mud into the wall but no where else. Stage one, cleared. Commencing stage two. Mana was pumped into the muddy layer where it disintegrated into raw, magical energy. Heat. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. His sensors (his mud sensor) showed the mud beginning to bubble, to churn up. Normally the water would start evaporating and vent away energy. But the particles were between the rock and anvil: the mana barriers and Harry''s Wall. The energy had nowhere to go and every moment more mana was pumped into the mud. The Mud Magician''s brow was wrinkled in concentration. The spell required every ounce of his attention. It was a complex tapestry of arcane architecture. A little more. A little more. The mud was superheating. Trapped water vaporized, forming steam bubbles inside the mud. Steam bubbles which made to tear the substance apart from the inside. The mana barriers trembled under the blows of untamed nature. Harry''s Wall shuddered. The Mud Magician grimaced. This was a channelled spell. A single spell continuous cast. The moment the Mud Magician ran out of mana, the whole spell construct would shatter. And still the fired brick stood firm. Its chemical realignments stoutly rebuffing the water''s advance. Mana reserves bottoming. Estimated energy thresholds crossed. Critical energy thresholds crossed. The Mud Scientist rubbed his hands together as he took in The Experiment. "Show me the divine spark!" Steam molecules zipped around inside the mud layer. They shattered into the suspended particles and strange, unnatural compounds exploded into existence, only to decay instantaneously as nature fought to consume the energy. There was an unpleasant, sizzlingly smell and a black, oily smoke filled the control room. The mud in the control panel was boiling, the mud magician''s hand inside. He didn''t take it out. He didn''t seem to notice. The mud wiring was starting to melt. The pressure buildup inside the barriers was beyond every calculation. Pressure levels, critical high, critical high. Breech impending. Crack. The superheated water had torn off a piece of the wall and was forcing its way inside. The internal bonds were shredded as water molecules catapulted through. The Mud Magician felt the moment the system recognized it as mud. This was working. This was working. This mad experiment. It was going to work. Only a little more. Only a little more. "The divine spark! The divine spark!" The Mud Magician forced more mana into the mud. He had the deep pools of a genius intelligence. He could go on. He was going to manage it. They were going to make it. "Harry I know you''re in there. Harry, we''re coming for you. Only a little longer." The wall shivered. This was the last stand, its final effort. The mud frenzied, clawing at the wall. Any moment. Any moment now. Boom! A spot in the mana barrier gave out and the whole structure blinked away. The barely contained pressure broke free in an explosion of energy. The whole bunker seethed and shook. All of the water instantly atomized. Boiling mud splattered in all directions. Chunks of hardened brick fragmented out and bulleted at the control panel. The blast shield cracked, held, cracked again. And then a glob of super-heated mud impacted and the explosion-proof glass melted clean through. Bob was inside the control panel. He was sitting on his spot. His hand an angry red. Hot tears in his eyes. He''d still had mana. He could''ve gone on. He should''ve done more. Why was it never enough? They''d been so close. The world was burning around him. The storm had come. But our hero didn''t try to run. He didn''t try to protect himself. He had made his oath. He had sworn not to leave and he wouldn''t. At least he would keep his oath. Pieces of the ceiling started to fall down around him. The lights flickered and then cut out as water got into the circuitry. Roiling waves battered against the control room and doused him in boiling water. Bob sat on there. In the darkness. This is the price of playing god. The concrete cracked and started to sag. Maybe the whole thing would come down on his head and that would be the end of it. He took a brick fragment to the left thigh. Another clipped him on the ear. Nature raged and ravaged. She stomped and cursed. She screamed her fury, her outrage and vengeance against the proud mortal who had challenged her laws. Challenged her laws and lost. Because Bob had lost. It had been on the blade of knife. Why in those last moments, he knew he''d felt Harry inside the wall, Harry calling out for help. But close means nothing in the end. Finally, after the storm, comes the silence. Bob was still alive. Nature had spared him to suffer. And the silence was dark and black and was far worse than the storm. Because life always goes on. No matter what tragedy, what misfortune, no matter how low you fall, or how gloriously you succeed, life goes on. Bob bought himself a torch. He bought himself a couple health patches. He mended up his burned hand, his wounded thigh. The scratches and bruises of a near-death escape. He was tired in his heart. There was mud everywhere. He used it to clear away the debris as best he could. He wanted to see what was left. He wanted to confront it all, now, before the will failed him. The long, yellow beam stretched out into the dark emptiness of the bunker. The water shimmered ominously with yellow reflections. It was a completely still. Dark and silent like the pools in the deeps of mountains. There was no brick wall. Bob swallowed. What had he expected? The bunker itself was in ruins. What had he expected? The wall, Harry''s wall had been pulverized by the explosion, shattered and stomped and scattered. Harry was gone. Gone forever. Bob had failed. It was over. It was over. His oath was broken. He stood up, walked over to the edge, and let himself fall down into the darkness.