George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Achievement: Poisonous

Skull and crossbones—I know that one; it means a taste worth dying for.

Voluntarily ingest/inject poison 1000 times in a six hour period

(poison must not be resisted)

Effects:

Minor resistance against all poisons

Natural mana corrosiveness increased

Yes, Bob was the Stylishly Late, Poisonous, Mud Monster, Cockroach. He was batting away romantic partners like flies. Good girls couldn't keep their hands off him.

The last couple hours had been the worst period in Bob's miserable twenty four year existence. The psychological torment of torturing yourself over and over... Bob didn't have the words. To freely, without compulsion, subject yourself to the needle poison, the sharp jab, the flash of tension as you unconsciously brace, the deep, echoing pain and then the itch, more spiritual than bodily... Bob didn't have the words.

And there was no enemy. No hooded figure to spit defiance at. No evil organization to steel yourself against, to vow vengeance upon. Bob was doing it to himself. He was the enemy. He was the monster snarling again, again, again.

And for what? Bob had made progress, sure. His body control had been refined and refined. His moments were grown precise and eloquent; they had acquired the grace of simplicity, every superfluous element expunged.

Believe it or not, Bob could now see the needle trajectory, as it jettisoned out of the caterpillar's tail; he could follow its cutting movement through the air; he could track its course as it slipped between his fingers and stabbed into his soft flesh.

Believe it or not, Bob could now make two catching attempts on the same needle. His hand would zip back to swipe again at the pesky needle.

Well? Stop wasting time, had he caught a needle or not?

No, Bob had never managed to catch a needle. He'd been bloody close one time. His timing, position, posture, mindset all perfect, he'd selected the sub-millimeter pocket of space the needle would pass through. Only, well, his fingers hadn't closed together with quite enough force. The needle had managed to slip through. And it retained just enough momentum to curve down and stab Bob in his big toe.

Young Jason, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. He was at the caterpillar ball. Jason had long since forgotten any plans he might have had for escape. Ecstasy is stronger than fear and Jason had found his drug. His drug was the music of a muffled thud, the yelled ow, the scrambling for more ointment, the "I'll get you next time." His drug was Bob's suffering. And he couldn't get enough of it.

He had gotten tricky, young Jason had. He mixed up his timing, his needle speed; he aimed for different spots. He blended in feints and double shots, trick shots, different length needles. Bob hated to admit it, but the damn caterpillar had improved faster than he had.

Thud! A needle in his upper arm. Bob braced for the poison jab. That incessant, unignorable itchiness, the pain sonar-pinging through his body. He braced. But it never came. The needle hurt, yes. But bearable, like a mosquito bite's tingling. He could keep going. He didn't need a time out. Poison resistance be praised!

Thud! Jason had taken advantage of his confusion to land another shot, but somehow Bob was unfazed. No, Bob broke out into a smile. The world seemed rosier than it had five minutes ago. He might just manage this arbitrary and unreasonable goal yet.

Jason twitched irritably. Corporal punishment is only fun when the victim screams. And yet Bob was smiling at him. Needles still quivering in his man flesh. Jason needed his hit. He ramped up his assault, pulling out all the stops, incorporating every lesson, every refinement he'd made over the mammoth session. He porcupined at Bob. Gatling out a near constant stream of needles. A hailstorm of mini-javelins.

The world froze as Bob saw. There was no time to think. No time to breathe. He saw the glittering needle points like stars in the great emptiness. He could flee. He could jump out of the way, call in the golden referee and reestablish the one-needle-at-a-time order. Or, or, he could stand.

Bob's hand moved unthinkingly. Blurring forward. Seeing only a single pinprick of reflected light. He didn't have the chance to tell himself to snap his wrist, or to give thirty centimeters of space before the needle, or to squeeze down extra hard. Bob was wrapped in the silence of the non-breath. In the action without thought.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Bob shivered as needles spasmed into him. His fingers. His chest. His throat. Poison overdosing his bloodstream, overwhelming his minor resistance and flashing him back to the agony of the self-inflicted torture. He toppled over, eyes closed against the pain. Boom! Green pus rained down on top of him, Harry umbrelling out to protect his master.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Bob opened his eyes. There in his hand. Pinched between thumb and forefinger was a single, shining needle.

He had done it. He had done it! He had bloody done it!

He groped around for some leftover ointment and started applying it generously. Jason was a puddle of green pus on the ground. Stachelflieger are apparently like bees (kind of). Once they fire out their last needle, they die, explosively.

Bob had done it! He fist pumped and jigged about and proudly displayed the captured needle. He had bloody well done it. But... how had he done it? He tried to remember. It had happened so fast. And there were so many needles. And there was no time to decide. What had he been thinking about? What had he done differently?

"Jason!"

Jason was a puddle of green pus on the ground. Nobody's ever there for you when you need them. Bob eyed the needleless puddle angrily. Jason did not conveniently reanimate. Only ten more gos and Bob would have mastered it. He had to try again now, while the sensation was fresh in his mind. Before he lost that strange feeling. It was like he hadn't been thinking at all...

Bob sighed and looked around him. It was evening already. The light was already dying in the west. Just how long had Bob been practicing? Three hours, five hours, seven hours? Bob was a little embarrassed to admit he had no idea. Stubbornness is a superpower.

By all rights, Bob ought to be happy. He had done it? Mission accomplished. A needle plucked out of the air. He wasn't though. He hadn't grasped why he had succeeded this time, or failed every time beforehand.

Bob tapped George with his foot. The dog was napping after a hearty meal and hearty seconds. He looked blissfully content. It makes you think, Bob shook his head, a little in awe. Humanity's glorious history of technological and artistic progress, maybe it's all just because we've never learned what a dog knows instinctively. How to be happy.

Bob dragged George off to traipse about looking for more caterpillar guinea pigs. Unfortunately, Bob had spent most of his day exterminating them; not to mention, they were diurnal and appeared to roost somewhere once the sun went down.

Bob vented his frustration on a couple E-rank monsters he came across, but they didn't meet anything worth the effort. In the end, Bob decided to set up camp and have another go on the morrow. He found a little circular clearing on the top of a low hill. It looked very pleasant and inviting. They would have a wonderful view of moonrise over the plains.

Was Bob worried about ambushes or night attacks? Not really. He was the chairman of an illustrious building company whose speciality was the portable fortress. Bob and George relaxed inside a military-grade mud dome. And Bob had packed George full of creature comforts: beds, chairs, table, a night stand, a glow-in-the-dark light, slippers, a soft carpet.

George curled up and continued the never-ending dream story. Bob settled down to some food and some reading. Jonny was cheerily reminiscing with his mentor Yamada Taro about their first meeting and what had made the sage take on Jonny as a disciple.

See Yamada-sensei had been living in a cave in the mountains. Something about caves attracts crazy old men. And Jonny had gone looking for him. But there was thousands of caves in the mountain and of course nobody knew exactly where the crazy old man had set up camp. Jonny had to painstakingly search each and every one.

It took Jonny a whole week. And what do you know, when he actually stumbled on Yamada-sensei, the master told him he was busy just now and that Jonny should come back tomorrow. But when Jonny came, Yamada-sensei had moved caves and Jonny had to start the whole search over from scratch. Cunning fox of an old man.

Jonny didn't take the hint. Another full week passed before Jonny could track down the crackpot sage. At which point, Yamada-sensei, shameless old man, once again, claimed he was otherwise engaged, it was Jonny's fault (the gall) for not visiting him at the requested time. Jonny should come back again in three days.

Jonny's wasn't having any of that. And after a choice exchange, where Yamada-sensei basically told Jonny to f*** off and Jonny told him to shove up his ass, the old man agreed to let Jonny sit at the cave entrance until he was done.

It was a long and boring wait. And just as Jonny was beginning to doze off, his legendary teacher tried tiptoeing off. The bastard. Jonny grabbed the geezer's ankle as he passed, and Yamada-sensei, seeing himself caught red handed, humphed to himself and walked back into his cave.

Three days later. The crackpot sage came out red-faced and annoyed, and grudgingly agreed to accept Jonny as his disciple. Yamada's "story" was that he'd been testing Jonny's resolve. Anybody who gave up so quickly would never be able to master Wi, self-discipline. And only when Wi was combined with one's Ki essence powers would one ever be able to approach true mastery. Jonny had passed the test and so was worthy of instruction.

Now Bob didn't believe that hogwash for a second. We let these sages get away with anything. Yamada was an absolute disgrace, no manners at all. A man's worth is defined by his hospitality.

Knock, Knock

Bob practically pissed himself with fright. He had not been expecting visitors today. His mud senses exploded outwards. He gulped. There was someone standing outside. And they weren't alone either. Yeah, company! A whole ring of companions encircled the clearing space. They were two-limbed, five-toed folk. People...

Knock, Knock

"Who's there?" Bob croaked out.

Knock, Knock

"We are presently closed. There has been a release of asbestos fibers in the area. It's very dangerous. We strongly recommend that you depart immediately. Please reach out again in two to three business days."

Knock, Knock

"It's the middle of the bloody night. Come back tomorrow!"

Crack!

Brown, Brown and Mud's proprietary mud brick formula could withstand a direct impact from a cannonball. And yet the six-inch thick mud wall had been cracked open. The impenetrable mud dome penetrated. White moonlight flowed into Bob's man cave.

Bob rose slowly from his chair. He was wearing fluffy white slippers and his underwear-mud cloak combination. He held a battered paperback in one hand. He gaped at the figure in front of him.