George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Uruk needed walls. Proud, glorious mud walls. Sure, the citizens of Uruk had made a good start. They had tried their best. They'd managed a respectable ditch and a decently-high earth rampart. They deserved a pat on the head, a glass of warm milk and a cookie. But it was Iron Age technology at best. And the world had long since transitioned to the Mud Age.

Bob called over little George (the boy). The foundation of good government is wanton displays of power. "Now watch very closely."

"Where? Where is it? What is it?"

"Good lad," Bob patted the boy on the shoulder. This performance was entirely for educational purposes. Bob was most certainly not showing off.

"Behold the power of the mud magician!"

With a wave of Bob's hand, a ten-meter high wall of mud pillared up from the ground. The little boy's eyes widened with fear and wonder. There were turrets and gateways, arrow slits and crenelations. No, Bob had not plagiarised the emerald city of the dueling unicorn beetles; he'd been inspired by it. And in all honesty, his walls didn't look nearly as good. Brown is not exactly the aesthetic equivalent of green. Little George underscored the point by shouting, "Pooland. Look Dad, it's Pooland." Bob was glad the choice of naming their new home had not fallen to the little brat.

In front of the walls was a deep trench (where the mud had come from). Bob sent dog George down to harden it all up. The dog popped out his staircase and wandered down into the trench. Every twenty yards, he'd breathe his dog fire and bake the soft mud. The result was a super-heated, high-grade brick trench.

Little George, who'd been watching this process from above, was utterly enthralled. The shameless brat was jumping up and down and shouting his head off about how awesome the dog was, how cool and epic. Bob stood there, concentrating on keeping his wall in place and pretending it didn't bother him.

Once George had cleared the trench, Bob initiated phase two. You've got this Bob. You've been practicing, Bob psyched himself up. Finish strong, Bob. Show the world what you've got. Magic net first Bob. Good, good. It's one-way right? Perfect. Now squeeze and excite. Squeeze and excite.

Bob squeezed and excited the wall. Its water content was pressed out and into the trench. How about that, an insta-moat, that was impressive, Bob turned to the little boy (the ultimate arbitrator of coolness). "The wall just peed. Eww. Peepooland. It's Peepooland." You know there's really no comparison between little George and dog George. One of them is a golden angel and the other is the spawn of satan himself.

The final phase of wall structure fell to George. He repeated his fire-bath process on the fortifications themselves, casting them into the Brown Company's trademark mud-brick. One impenetrable section of mud wall completed.

Bob returned to his rest station and leaned back in his camp chair. He sipped on a glass of iced lemonade. Playing mud-god for little children is very mana expensive. Yes, he was an intelligence-specialist with a correspondingly high mana pool, and his rank D evolution had jumpstarted his mana efficiency, but he was still going to need a thirty minute break before he carried on.

Little George came over, his red cheeks wrinkled up into a frown. "Why are you stopping? More mud castles. Make more." The boy's father, Edward, hurried up behind him.

"George, you mustn't bother Bob. It's hard work building the walls."

"Bob?" The boy chewed on the name. "But Dad, where's his hat? He's not wearing it."

"What are you talking about, George?"

George leveled a little finger at the reclined Bob. "He's Bob the Builder, right?"

"Mr. Brown, I'm terribly sorry. You know how children get." The father stepped in front of his child and tried to shoo him away, but little George was having none of that. He would put the matter to the test himself. He started up in a sing-song voice: "Bob the Builder, can he fix it?" and then paused to see if Bob would finish the chorus. Bob refused to lower himself. He was the proud and noble Mud Magician. Bob the Brown. Not Bob the Builder.

"George, be quiet!"

Little George ignored his father. He tried again. "Bob the Builder, can he fix it?"

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"I'm so sorry." His father picked up the little boy and began marching away.

"Bob the Builder, can he fix it?" the boy sung at the top of his lungs.

For the children, Bob, for the children. Bob caved. "Bob the Builder, yes he can."

Little George whooped and shouted, "I knew it. I knew he was Bob the Builder." He immediately started to blast out the theme song on his scout whistle. They'd be listening to it for days to come. The father gave Bob an I'm-so-sorry stare. But Bob was looking warily around. Three, two, one. He sighed with relief. Thank God. Thank God the system hadn't noticed.

Ping!

Title: Bob the Builder

In memory of a legendary folk hero of the British Isles

Effects: ability - can we fix it?

Skill: Can we fix it? (Charm)

Every builder's magical incantation.

Effects: Gain a durability bonus on all repaired/constructed structures
(incantation must be sung out loud)

The system is always watching Bob. Always. "I hate children."

The townspeople had only been mildly suspicious when Bob vehemently demanded that all of his buildings sites required absolute, inviolable privacy. They were highly dangerous, he claimed and everyone had to be well out of earshot lest terrible things should happen. But how could Bob give up a free durability bonus for his new city?

"Bob the Builder, can we fix it?"

"Bob the Builder, yes we can!"

At least the chorus verses were mildly catching. Indeed, Bob was a little worried the tune might get stuck in his head and that someone should stumble upon him humming it unconsciously. Especially if that someone were Sophie.

Heavens above, if Sophie should catch him humming the Bob the Builder theme tune... Bob would lose all the literary high ground he'd captured in the Uruk debate. Bob got a feeling just then. A bad feeling. He turned around and, she, was, not there. You're just imagining things Bob, he consoled himself, get back to work.

And get back to work he did. Bob, George and Harry threw themselves into construction. It was thirty-percent high-level magic and seventy-percent waiting for mana-recovery. The process gained a meaningful efficiency boost, when Bob discovered that meditating significantly improved his mana regen.

Yes, really, who would have guessed? You had already assumed that the whole time. Shut up. Dumb as mud is not a nice thing to say about someone behind their back. And really, in Bob's defense, how was a man to know when the system UI didn't show a person's mana points or their regen rate?

Mana regeneration was not static either. You didn't regenerate the same flat rate regardless of circumstances. It more closely mirrored heat diffusion. The emptier your mana pool, the higher the regen rate. And conversely, the fuller the pool the slower. That meant you could be more efficient by building in smaller chunks and never letting your mana get higher than fifty percent.

Everyone was lucky Bob was such a genius magical researcher, because even with all of his productivity gains, it was late into the night before Brown Construction completed the city walls. They'd managed to enclose a five-hundred meter square. Two kilometers of ten-meter high wall. It was a grand beginning for the city.

Only five-hundred meters, you say? Small and rather provincial. Hardly a city at all. Barely even a town. A walled village? A walled courtyard? Maybe so. And yet the funny thing is Uruk was probably the greatest city in the world. It might even be the only city in the world.

"George, they told me you'd never make a service dog. They couldn't have been more wrong. You did great today, boy."

Ruff!

Bob and George stood at the top of their wall and looked over the grasslands. Bob had never seen so many stars before. Civilization quite drowns out the beauty of nature. He (wrongly) pointed out the Dog Star to George and then (wrongly) tried to map out Canis Major. It was a lot of fun. Stars exist to be misinterpreted.

Bob breathed in the cool air. He congratulated himself. You helped people today, he patted himself on the back. Yeah, he liked this feeling. It felt good helping people. He was a good man. He would sleep well tonight. He would smile and wave to anyone he met. People were good, he thought to himself, he walked down the mud stairs into his city.

Ali was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairway.

"Bob, apologies. I wanted to bring this to your attention earlier but didn't dare disturb the building process. 'Inviolable privacy' and all," he coughed in a way that made Bob think he didn't buy Bob's danger story. "We may have a problem."

"Oh," Bob's mood instantly soured. Couldn't a man get a break after a full day of wall-rising labor? He hated everyone and everything. The only companion for a man was a dog. A dog that couldn't talk and never brought "problems to your attention."

"About ten more folk have showed up at the town."

"So what? We accept refugees. There's plenty of space and tents. Ali, can't you see I'm worn out? I need bangers and mash and a long soak."

Ali stepped in front of Bob. Bob groaned.

"Okay, what's the problem?"

"Well, one of them thinks he should be leader."

"Ali, you let in a fucking revolutionary."

"I didn't know he was a revolutionary until I let him in, now did I?"

Bob got a little nervous. "Does he look strong?"

"Oh yeah, he looks real strong. He's carrying a wicked blade. And I'm pretty sure the stains on his shirt are human blood. He's pretty buffed up too."

"Ali, for fuck's sake, a muscle-man carrying a giant meat-cleaver, drenched in human blood? I know I said we'd accept refugees, but use your eyes!"

"He said he was a butcher. We need craftspeople, Bob."

"A butcher of children, Ali. Will he go away?"

"No, he wants a duel."