George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

It was not the bandit king. Of course, it wasn't the bandit king. If the bandit king knew Bob was out of the city, he wouldn't attack Bob, the master of muddy escapes. He would attack the city.

No, it was not the bandit king. It was much, much worse than the bandit king. If only it had been the bandit king. Against the bandit king, Bob might have stood some chance. He could have gestured and gesticulated, bullshit and complained; he could have mud-rolled or mud-falled or mud-darted. But against this... Against this monstrosity... What hope did he have?

No hope. Bob was frozen in place. His eyes glued on the threshold. Before him stood a monster of unspeakable power, a divine messenger, a harbinger. He had but one moment, one eternal moment to decide: fight, flee, beg, despair, pray—his whole life balanced on this single cast. On the whim of the great die. How would he live? How would he die?

"Welcome, welcome. What took you so long? Come in, come in. Get out of the rain."

Bob gave his best Italian smile; he approached with airy, welcoming gestures. He slung an arm across the stranger's shoulder and steered him towards a chair. The stranger started to—

"One moment. Just a moment."

Bob swiped the chair clean of any dust or crumbs. He adjusted the cushion. He nodded definitively.

"There we go. Sit, sit. Make yourself at home. Tea?"

And then without waiting for an answer, "George, peppermint tea for our guest."

A china teacup, complete with saucer and silver teaspoon, generously filled with a fragrant, green liquid popped into Bob's hand. The warm, delectable smell began seeping across the room.

"Here you are," Bob fussed as he set the tea down on the side table. "Careful now. It's freshly brewed. Twinings Signature Peppermint. You'll sleep like a babe. Now what do you say to some biscuits?"

The stranger was just about to—

"What am I saying? No point even asking. Whoever said no to a plate of biscuits? George, biscuits if you please?"

Pop! A blue china plate, loaded with an assortment of crumbling delicacies: jammy dodgers, custard creams, hobnobs, ginger nuts and, of course, digestives. The whole works.

"There we are." Bob set the plate down within easy reach of the guest. "Now I personally am a fan of the chocolate digestives," Bob pointed out the biscuit in question, "it's the way they crumble in your mouth and then chocolate sweetness. You must try one. I have a Kriotere back at base who's mildly addicted."

Bob helped the stranger help himself. The stranger made to—

"Ah!" Bob slapped himself on the head. "How infernally rude of me! It's a cold night. George, what are we doing to our guest? A blanket! One of the nice cashmere ones."

Pop!

"That's the ticket, George. Now don't mind me." Bob waved away the stranger's protestations as he himself knelt and wrapped the blanket over the stranger's knees. During which process, he couldn't help but notice the stranger's uncovered feet, five red piggies with sharp claws.

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"Your poor feet. George, slippers."

Pop! A bright pink, absurdly fuzzy pair of slippers appeared. Bob mumbled, "Excuse me," as he gently lifted the stranger's feet, one at a time, and slid them into the warm slippers.

"There we go. Nice and toasty," Bob nodded appreciatively, as he pulled himself up a chair. He dug up his own tea and loaded his saucer with a few choice biscuits. The two of them sat across from each other.

"Awful weather we've been having, don't you think?"

The stranger calmly set down his tea and doubled over with laugher. He was tearing up, practicing convulsing with mirth.

Bob knew a comedic opportunity when he saw one. "I know, right? Rain after rain after rain. A man can't take it. Humidity disrupts the natural sleep cycle. I haven't managed a proper wink in days now."

The stranger held up a clawed hand, begging for mercy.

Bob waited. He waited a little longer. He waited for that goldilocks moment when the stranger had just about recovered but not quite, when the laughter still smoldered within him, waiting for just the right spark. Then Bob struck:

"So how's the tea?"

The stranger guffawed. He looked like he might fall off his chair and bring the whole table down with him. He gasped for breath. Recovered himself. Relapsed. And through shuddering chuckles, he just about managed to say, in a surprisingly human voice:

"And here I meant to cut you down the moment I got inside."

Bob smiled and shook his head, as if an old friend had made a familiar jest. Then he leaned forward with eyebrows raised. The stranger had been expecting a different reaction and looked confusedly at his host. Bob repeated his question.

"The tea?"

Another rumbling chuckle. The stranger reached out and tasted the peppermint tea.

"Very good. Most soothing."

Ping! Bob discretely pocketed the paperback that had materialized in empty space. "I'm a savage. I forgot to ask how you take it. Shot of milk? Packet of sugar? Spoonful of honey? How about a slice of lemon?"

"You know a dab of honey wouldn't hurt."

"George, you heard our guest."

Pop!

"Here you are. Don't hold back. As much as you'd like. There's plenty more."

"You keep a comfortable home, Mr..."

"Mr. Brown. On the contrary, good guests make a home comfortable. Wouldn't you agree, Mr..."

"You know, I've never had to give a name before." The stranger pondered, tapping his chin.

"I suppose you ought to call me, the Messenger of the Harvest," concluded the level 50, Rank C zone boss, Der Ernteherold.

Yes, on the chair across from Bob was the lord of the plains. A full thirty seven levels higher than Bob and one rank above to boot. He was a praying-mantis humanoid, in the lineage of the reaper-insects.

His head was vaguely triangular. His large eyes were positioned on either of his head, giving him near three-hundred sixty degree vision. They were complemented by three gemlike pupils on his forehead. His skin was composed of green and black shading, that continuously shifted and flowed like Rorschach pattern come alive. His hands and feet were almost human, save for the way the digits tapered into razor-sharp claws.

"So, Mess for short?"

The zone boss shook his head with a bemused expression.

"What am I to do with you, Mr. Brown?"

"Hold on off that one sec. Have a biscuit first, eh? Everybody thinks better on a biscuit."

The Messenger of the Harvest nibbled into a digestive.

"This is very good. It pairs wonderfully with the tea."

"I told you. Have another. The hobnobs aren't half-bad either."

"Mr. Brown."

"Mess, old boy?"

"It's pains me to say this. But you've just so happened to build your comfortable home in the middle of our tournament grounds. You didn't think a perfectly circular clearing on a hilltop was a coincidence, did you? Tonight is the tournament of the full moon."

Bob processed this, disguising his deliberations by taking a large bite out of a biscuit and chewing slowly. The Zone Boss waited politely.

"Exactly Mess. Why do you think I'm here? I want a crack at that tournament of yours."

"Is that so, is that so, Mr. Brown," the Zone Boss was smiling widely, "then everything is settled. You are in luck. We had an odd number and I despise uneven brackets. You will compete then."

"Grand. Just grand. It's a pleasure talking with reasonable people. When do we start?"

The Zone Boss drained his tea, finished his biscuit and rose to his feet.

"Now."