George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob was ready. Who'd have believed it? He actually felt ready for the fight. Confident. Easy. Pumped up for a close combat, high stakes duel with a deadly opponent. The Christian was turned lion-eater. Miracles really do happen.

All praise to the system for designing Bob's build. As embarrassing as it was to admit, Bob would have screwed it all up. Human fear would have had him maxing out vitality and constitution, while starving his body stats. He'd have died slow, but he'd have died all the same.

Bob sank into his ready position. He let his breath cycle through his body, relaxing every tight spot, soothing away all tension. He closed his eyes and let the emptiness swallow over him. This was peace. This was the music of the soul.

Crack!

Bob's eyes flashed open. Moon-Fang was plunging at him. He stepped back, parrying the one blow to the left and the other to the right, then twisted forward, cracking his elbow towards her face.

She was more than equal to the blow. She ducked smoothly and hammered the free dagger towards Bob's ribs. Bob was ready. His forearm already chopping down to knock the blow aside. She corrected, angling the blade and slicing. The knife would have scored across his thigh and had him crumbling down to one knee, except Bob had already adjusted. His elbow came down hard on her wrist.

The transferred momentum threw her downwards. She caught herself in a one-handed hand stand (the flat of the knife) and then flipped herself up and backwards, just before Bob could knee her in the side of the head. She landed gracefully, almost floating through the air. Show-off, Bob mud-envied.

Moon-Fang circled. Bob stood in the ring's centre, watching her quick steps and quick eyes. She was a falcon. Lighter and faster than any of the contestants he'd battled so far. She moved like a bird, mixing short glides into her footwork, counterbalancing with her wings. She might have been the wind itself.

Bob parried again and again. His guard, impenetrable. His empty form, always the balance to her attacks. But she was lightning and thunder. She danced in and danced out. Those vicious blades shimmering needlepoints, a calligraphy of death drawn across time and space. And he couldn't harm her.

She was all dexterity. A paper tiger with steel claws. A single mana-expressed punch would have tore right through her. Alas that Bob was such a poor student. His mana expression hadn't reached year one reading. A rank-D plastic cup could have beaten him in an expression match.

He'd have to pluck her out of the air and pin her. He created an opening, stepping back unnecessarily and coming out of position. She pounced and he lunged at her. A bear trying to mob the graceful panther. And all of a sudden, she had disappeared, zipping out of his reach with a superhuman burst of speed.

Bob almost smiled to himself. Of course! Of course, her wind power is a self-enhancing speed boost. Because she was so slow to begin with. System feels sorry for the girl. Poor, poor Moon-Fang. Here's a nice, little power for you.

The girl was practically untouchable. Bob's heart went out to the giant, lumbering Maceatron. He had never stood a chance. She could have limboed under his full-out swing and popped up to tickle him under the armpits. The universe is chock-full of inherent and inescapable unfairnesses.

Bob was going to have to make some sacrifices for the cause. But a lesson in mana-combat from a Rank C Zone Boss was not the kind of thing you passed up. Call it system luck, call it a glorious, intuitive sense of where to camp, but Bob had found his path to beating the bandit king. If Mess could show Bob how to do even a fraction of what he'd just demonstrated, Bob could trounce the bandit king. He had to win here.

She lunged forward, double feigning, before daggering towards his neck. "Fuck it," Bob grabbed the dagger blade. He almost let it go instinctively. The thing was bursting with mana. Miss. Moon-Fang has no trouble mana-expressing. Miss Moon-Fang is top of her class. The pain was spiritual; it was like his body was burning up from the inside. And then she jerked backwards with riptide force, the whole confederation of winds pushing them apart.

The blade cut itself clean out of his hand. Don't worry, the blade left behind something to remember it by. A deep gash, that continued to sting meanly and showed no signs of healing on its own. Yeah, Bob didn't think he was going to repeat the operation.

It was so frustrating, because in his empty-cup form Bob was able to land hits. Split-second counters, offensive parries, but they didn't hurt her. They didn't even slow her down. Hell, if anything they encouraged her. She was growing fearless, reckless even. Willing to trade a full-on punch to the stomach for a shallow score across Bob's cheek.

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But just let Bob so much as hint at kneading his mana and she was wary as a fox. She stayed well back, not even pretending to engage, wisping away from him. Catching her was like catching the wind itself. Impossible.

Mess was right. He hadn't mastered the empty-cup style. He was aping it. He had no degrees of freedom. No mastery. It fell away completely as soon as he tried to do something complex. And without it, he was no match for her. That's how she could always tell. The way his movements grew clumsy and unrefined. The moment he stepped outside of the bubble of grace, she knew he was trying something.

It was a stalemate, but he was losing. She held all the cards and he was already bleeding from several places. Imagining he would land some crippling blow on her was like betting your life that this time, for sure, the lottery gods would choose your number. He'd have to play dirty.

Bob repositioned himself to the very edge of the ring. Back heel on the line itself. Don't think about downing her. Don't think about mana expression. All you need is a push. A light push at the right moment.

She knew what he was doing of course. And in a battle of experience, there was no competition at all. The way she moved. She must be the darling of her people. Even Bob (not a fan of insects) found it mildly hypnotizing.

Small taps barely phased her. She had corrected before even hitting the ground. She had control over the wind itself and all the supernatural balance of a being born to fly. Even when Bob pulled off a very cunning piece of work, a half-step-twist-surprise-full-on-Bob-Brown-two-handed shove, she glided sharply away, skirting the edge of the ring, with a look of such confidence that Bob gave up on the thing then and there. He had been dreaming. He shook his head and spat on the ground.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? He ground out through clenched teeth. That lesson with Mess was priceless, beyond priceless. Rediscovering a discipline on your own was the province of genius. Bob had spent most of his first day frustratedly berating mud.

He was getting desperate. He'd have to take a risk. But wasn't this exactly what she was waiting for? Moon-Fang had the coordination of a goddess. Who do you think is going to come out on top when the chips fall? She came at him again. One-two, one-two, the daggers flickering as she punched and wove and stabbed. It was a display of such martial mastery. Of such awesome body-control.

And then he heard it. Sharp on the wind. The call. The call for aid.

Oh no. Oh no.

The dog had heard it too. He was on his feet and barking. Nobody else noticed. Nobody else could hear it. That was little George's gift after all.

It had happened. All their darkest fears. The city was in danger. The bandit king knew Bob was away. The bandit king was attacking. Even now he might be storming the gate, marching through the streets, burning house after house, murdering people Bob knew.

A jolt of hot pain dragged Bob back to the fight. Moon-Fang's dagger was plunged into his thigh, deep, all the way to the handle. He felt her mana cutting into him, burning away the essence of life.

Bob snatched her other dagger. He jarred it around and shoved it into her own chest. She gagged and misstepped. Clear blood flowed out over his hands. He grabbed her by the shoulder, poised to smash her out of the ring, when she disappearing, only an echo of an echo and her kneeling thirty feet away.

She was a dead woman walking. He hadn't held back. That was his full strength and she was paper-frail. That mana-infused dagger had shattered organs.

"Mess, she's dying. Call it."

Mess shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mr Brown. You're forgetting that only another person's mana is corrosive. Your own mana won't hurt you all. Her mana body is practically unharmed. She can fight on."

"Fuck!" Bob shouted and the call came again. Crystal clear. Sharp and desperate in the night. Little George's call for aid. The dog had gone mad. He was barking and snarling. He tried to burst into the ring, but Mess held him back.

Moon-Fang was on her feet. She was swaying a little. Whatever Mess said, you weren't barely injured after a blow like that. He could take her. His thigh wasn't so bad. He could still win. It would just take a couple minutes.

"I surrender."

Bob swept out of the ring. Harry Mud coming to him. George bounding up. Pop, a health patch. Bob caught it and slapped it on. Unfortunately, they were only mildly effective on mana-spiked wounds. The skin closed up, but the wound wasn't really healed. He slapped on another. His thigh ached terribly. Could he fight like this? What choice did he have?

Bob looked over the night plains. How far was he from the city? How had the bandit king found out so quickly? He had told no-one. What if he was already too late? It didn't matter. He would go all the same. Now and with every bit of speed the mud magician could muster.

He hoisted George up into a newly-formed mud backpack, as Harry's winged out and Bob clutched the handle of white dagger. If anything had happened to them... He leapt off with an explosive bound. He was coming.

And then he was pulled up short. A hand on his shoulder. Mess had stopped him.

"Mess, let me go. Now!"

"My question, Mr. Brown."

"Mess, later. Every second matters."

"You promised you would answer, Mr. Brown."

"Then ask already. My city is burning."

"Mr. Brown, do you plan to come back and kill me once you are grown stronger?"

Bob sighed. He didn't have time for this. But Mess had a hard expression. And it was a fair question. A question from monster to sentient. And Bob told the truth.

"Mess, there's only one way to rank up. Reach the highest level and then kill someone a rank higher than you. And if a sentient doesn't rank up soon, the world is getting recycled."

"Mr. Brown—"

"But Mess, no, I won't come for you. You're not some monster to me now."

The hand on Bob's shoulder seemed to relax slightly.

"There is a tournament on the new moon. The prize is the same. I'll be waiting."