George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob was going to die. There were no two ways about it. This was a Christian versus the lion situation. They called it a "fight", but that was just a euphemistic way of saying "execution".

Bob was trapped in the ring with a blood-thirsty, evolutionarily-honed, dual-wielding, and (worst of all) bigoted professional. A professional whose alien eyes glowered with an unfair, speciesist hatred. A professional who padded forward like darkness itself turned assassin.

And what did Bob have to defend himself? A weapon? Ha! His six-inch, beetle-horn dagger had been judged "unfair." And to compound misfortunes, he had made the mistake of trimming his fingernails only yesterday (the standard first-date grooming routine). He was unarmed and unnailed.

His soul-bonded companion object, Harry Mud, with whom he had never once been parted, had been confiscated, on anti-sentient grounds, and lay puddled, helpless, on the sidelines. In her infinite wisdom, nature has given mankind only its brain to defend themselves with. And Bob's brain was recounting the many ways he could have avoided getting into this situation to begin with. Super helpful.

Yes, Bob was the mud magician, wielder of the arcane forces, student of the secret energy. He was practically a magical legend, discoverer of the grand laws, honorary lecturer at the mage academy. Now, he stood on the packed soil, without a drop of mud to control. No better than your common muddle. What is a king without his subjects? Yes, that right's, a fat, old man wearing impractical clothes and a leaky pot on his head.

Two-Sword leered at Bob. And Bob didn't have to be an anthropologist to understand exactly what the monster was thinking. After all, it was exactly what Bob was thinking. What the whole assembled company was thinking. What Mess was thinking: Bob was going to die.

Crack!

Two-Sword launched himself forward, bulleting off the ground and towards the weak, fleshy human. He would end this in a single, glorious swipe. One whiplash unsheathing and the thud of the human's head hitting the ground. The long blade unfolded in a graceful, flashing arc.

Bob ducked. The blade shimmered over his head, cracking the air and disorienting him. Two-Sword pressed on. His punching dagger following up in a blurred one-two that would leave Bob's intestines spilling out onto the ground.

Bob remembered Harry fondly. The way the soft cloth felt against his skin. The way the cloak would automatically balance Bob's more aggressive footwork. The way Harry would flare out and catch incoming blows, throwing them off course or slowing them down enough for Bob to dodge smoothly.

Harry was gone. Bob just had to dive the hell of the way. He crashed into the packed ground with enough force to knock the breath clean out of him. If only this were mud... Bob had never known how much he'd miss the sticky brown substance. He desperately pencil rolled clear of several up-down stabs.

The gallery was laughing. And not the he's-so-funny-mum kind, more the that-guy-deserves-to-suffer kind. Somehow Bob's duels were always characterized by their comedic potential. Through it all, Bob still managed to hear Mess interrogating George on whether this was Bob's serious fighting or if he was just taking the piss. Bob promised it was all entirely unintentional.

He promised as he belly-flopped to his feet (don't question post-system strength) and spiraled out of the way of another decapitating slash. Two-Sword had an unhealthy neck-fetish. He really wanted to see Bob's head on the ground. Maybe it had something to do with the katana being his weapon of choice.

But one thing was growing eminently clear to Bob. Two-Sword was out to kill him. Tournament be damned. The monster was taking great pains to avoid letting Bob get too close to the ring boundary. Always his attacks aimed at herding Bob towards the centre.

Of course, Bob could surrender. A life without big toes was infinitely preferable to a life without a head. But Mess had practically told Bob that bad things would come to him if he didn't put on a good show. And somehow Bob didn't think slaying the gallery with comedy gold would count.

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"Mess, is there a time limit?"

"No."

Another long sweep of the blade found Bob distracted. He tripped back fast enough to avoid membership in the headless hunt, but too slow to escape entirely unscathed. The katana scored across the wings of his nose, connecting his two nostrils and creating the mono-nose.

There was a strange, unnatural burning sensation, like he was being seared. The burst of pain and the hot, metallic blood calmed Bob. They cut through his fear, his indecision, his ruminating thoughts. The answer was obvious. There was no thinking his way out of this one. There was only one path to freedom and safety. And it was waiting just behind Two-Sword.

Bob breathed in. He breathed out. He let calmness cloak around him. Two seconds in, two seconds out; a dynamic, tactical breathing. Two seconds in, two seconds out. The empty-mind. Anchor his whole awareness on the opponent in front of him.

The world was simplified, reduced to a circle of packed earth, to the sound of rain beating on an invisible wind barrier, to the ethereal halo of moonlight, to a solitary and defeatable foe.

Two-Sword was tearing around the course. Dancing circles about Bob. Swiping and stabbing, feigning and thrusting. But Bob smoothly dodged again and again. If anything, his dodges were growing crisper and more precise. His body moving in anticipation, faster than his mind could interpret the attacks.

Bob remembered now. He remembered that moment, the moment he swiped out Jason's needle from the air. He remembered what he had done differently. Why he had failed again and again and again. The answer was obvious: thought. The mind gets in the way of itself. The master doesn't have to think. The dance, the spirit of his martial art, has been drilled into every muscle of his body. His core, his fingers, the cycle of breathes.

Bob let himself slip away. He let himself fall into the deepest, darkest places. Into the mind-death. Into the moving, flowing mediation of the body without thought. And somehow forms floated up into his mind. His body settled into particular sequences, like he'd practiced them day after day.

Skill: Mediation (Knowledge)

Forget yourself.

Effect: Grants an instinctive mastery of all system-known meditative practices.

Bob had fallen into a light ready-position. His left foot slightly forward, right foot set back, his centre of gravity low and flexible, his torso upright but relaxed, his two hands at chin level, one probing, the other playing sentinel. His breathing was calm and controlled. His whole posture emanated a tranquility, the still readiness of the mountain pool.

Bob didn't notice when the gallery stopped laughing. He didn't notice George's encouraging barks. He didn't notice Mess's eyes saucer, or the way the Zone Boss leaned forward and gazed thoughtfully at him.

Two-Sword exploded forward with the righteous fury of the chosen. His blades were a whirlwind of destruction. The punching dagger feigned, twisted, stabbed down. Bob saw. Bob watched. He was in control now. His hand prodded out, gently pushing the blade off course. A trap!

There was a sudden flash of wind. A great gust battered into Bob. He wasn't ready for it. He tried to anchor his feet, but the wind got under him and torn him from the soil. He was thrown up, ungrounded, helpless. Shing! The katana shivered through the air, galloping towards Bob, as the insect transferred all his accumulated momentum into a final guillotining strike.

Bob breathed out. The world is infinitely quiet in that space between moments. Those pockets of darkness that comprise the endless flow of time. Bob closed his eyes. He was not going to duck or dodge.

Forget yourself.

The glittering blade edged forward, inch by inch by inch, its sharp bite lasered onto Bob's neck. And then there was a hand, flowing up, as though pulled by some string of destiny, and out of the grand infinity of space, it picked one fateful spot. The blade edged forward. And suddenly the fingers viced down and... caught it.

Bob landed and tensed his legs, grabbing the hard ground with his toes. The force of the attack shoved him back all the same. The skin of his feet was grated away as he tore up the packed soil, scoring a long scar into the battleground. The two of them came to a stop some twenty centimetres from the ring's edge.

He had caught the blade. The gallery was speechless. Mess gazed in wonder. A worthy adversary. Two-Sword couldn't believe what he'd seen. He was frozen by awe. And then his frustration flared up and he flailed wildly, trying to break free, machine gunning his dagger at Bob's midriff.

Bob calmly delivered a shattering blow to Two-Sword's neck. The monster was catapulting into the soil, the ground cracking with the impact as dust jettisoned up in an angry cloud. Bob turned to Mess, bowed and started to walk away.

The next second he spun around, only just in time, because Two-Sword was lunging at him with his long sword. Bob slapped the sword aside and jetted a fist into Two-Sword's chest. The blow could have splintered stone. Two-Sword was fountained backwards, only staying in the ring by flaring his wings out and dumping momentum.

Bob examined his adversary. He looked... unharmed?

Two-Sword came again. Desperate. Manic. Suicidal. A fireball of pride and hate and hopelessness. Bob stepped inside the attack and snatched out both Two-Sword's limbs. He walked the angry predator to the edge of the ring, easily fighting off his desperate wriggling, and chucked him out.

Crack!