George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

The axe swung down. A sharp whistle in the night.

Argh! A man cried out and then—Thump!

The axehead quivered in the ground beside Bob's ear.

Something muddy had jerked the king's ankle and at the same instance, Bob boomed his mana-charged fist forward, barreling it at the tottering king, one throw for destiny, one throw for the end of world.

Thump!

There was no explosion. No gasp of pain. No impact. The bandit king had tripped. Tripped and fallen—thump—down on Bob's chest, pinning his right arm to the ground. His fist never even made contact. His stored-up mana dribbled helplessly out onto the mud, impotent.

Bob had just enough circumspection, even in these desperate circumstances, to conclude once and for all that playing dead was a universally stupid idea and that he would sue Hollywood the first opportunity he got.

Bob shuffled and spasmed and did everything he could to shimmy himself out from under the bandit king. But the bandit king was a big man and the alignment was most unfavorable. Progress was slow. Bob's plan had leaned heavily into "the element of surprise" aspect.

"You!"

The bandit king spluttered. His mouth and lips shaped words, but all that came out was the solitary syllable: "you." His face flushed. A globule of spit dripped unflatteringly down his chin. The king compensated for his limited vocabulary by maxing out volume. "YOU!" He screamed into Bob's face.

In the deep places of the human mind, in those depths beyond the light of reason, civilization and culture, lives violences. The bandit king cut through all doubts, questions and mysteries by resolving to batter Bob's head in. The blows came thick and fast.

"Dammit Governor. Is that any way to greet an old chum?"

Bob appealed to the man's human side, while doing his best to kick the mad bull off him. The bandit king didn't even budge. An anvil would have been more pliable. The king's knees were butterflied around Bob's midriff and were clamping down with enough force to pulverize bone.

Harry tried to shield Bob from the hailstorm of punches, but the bandit king shattered through, delivering hammer blow after hammer blow. Yes, the world is inherently unfair. The bandit king with no formal training, basic education, or qualified mentor, was capable of micro mana-expression. What can I say, it just came naturally to him (*&!$=?).

Bob was in a bad spot. His brain was being rattling around in his skull. He couldn't get free. The world was spinning. Sensory information swirled and mixed and mutated. He was in his own personal rollercoaster and gravity was at best a suggestion.

Bob threw up. The vomit came out explosively. Green, sticky goop splattered over the bandit king's face and pooled around his nice collar. The king actually stopped punching Bob in surprise. His first thought was that Bob had learned a new (and disgusting) poison attack, but as he hurried to scoop away the refuge, reality sunk in.

"What is wrong with you, man? Can't we just have a clean, normal fight to the death!"

Bob gasped and spat and swallowed. He tried to recall what he was and where he was doing. The short intermission had given the bandit king time to remember that he was holding a mean and nasty axe in his right hand. The axe swept up and Bob's guardian angel did the only thing he knew how to. Escape into the mud.

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The two of them plummeted downwards. The mud got in the way of axe swinging so the bandit king defaulted back to his fists. Bob was seeing stars. A mud sky with its pebble constellations. But a profound sense of déjà vu had come over him. He recognized the general outlines, this here was familiar ground. Now Bob, what do you do when something monstrous and hairy is sitting on top of you and doing its best to kill you? He knew this one. Instincts took over and his thoughts started to clear.

The bandit king was startled when he got his first muddy mouthful. But to his credit, he swallowed it down with the professionalism of an adult film actress. He probably assumed it was a workplace accident, the kind of the thing that just happens when you engage in subterranean close combat.

But when the second mouthful and the third mouthful arrived, the bandit king began to question that charitable assumption. And when the fourth mouthful hit, he understood. This man, in the middle of a serious fight, was expending his time and energy trying to make his opponent mud-swallow! Mud—the poo of earth, worm excrement, black slime.

"Something's wrong with you man. You're sick in the head," the bandit king managed to whine out, despite a difficult medium and heavy-duty multi-tasking.

Ordinary mud wasn't cutting it. Nobody ever died of a few too many mud pies. Next came Harry. The cloak started to snake up the bandit king's nose. It was a tricky spell. The nose is surprisingly intricate and maze-like. And Bob wasn't exactly at his spell-crafting best. But Harry was just tiptoeing into the bandit king's gullet, when the bandit king sensed the danger. He abandoned course instantaneously, propelling himself off Bob's body and shooting towards the surface.

Harry hedgehoged. The bandit king choked as the insides of his mouth and nose were ravaged by mud spikes. Blood streamed through his closed mouth. He swept his mighty axe behind him. Harry shifted and the blade sliced clean through the liquid mud. Take that! Harry reformed—

Except... he didn't.

Somehow, Bob had lost control. Harry had taken... damage. The mana charged attack had severed Harry's connection with his vanguard. He was vulnerable! Bob jerked back the cloak, just as the axe swiped around again.

The bandit king fountained out of the mud, scrambling up to his feet. He planted himself there and smiled savagely. "Come and get me," he signaled, before breaking down into a long coughing fit as he tried to spit out as much mud as he could.

The bandit king paused. He looked curiously at the mud pile he had spat out. He had noticed something there. What was that red thing? It looked awfully like a tongue. Like his tongue.

The bandit king tried to call out, but his mouth only managed a dragging, indistinct jumble of noise. He tried again and the effect was almost passable.

"Ith tha my thung?"

The bandit king bent down and cupped it in his hands. He tried slotting it back into his mouth, but tongues aren't exactly plug and play. The moment he opened his mouth again, it plopped back out onto the ground.

"Yu cuh off my thung! Cuh ou an figh meh lie a ma!"

The two of them squared off against each other: the mud magician and the bandit king.

"You look like shit. Honestly, how have you not passed out? Your pain tolerance is off the charts."

"Yuh ah one fuh uh guy, cuh-ting off a ma's thung."

"What are saying you, I can't make it out."

"I seh yuh ah one fuh uh guy."

"Fuh uh—what the hell does that mean? Funny? Are you calling me funny? Thanks I am funny, although generally underapperciated. It's great to meet a fan."

"I seh, I seh, dammih, yuh makin fun o' meh."

"See, funny, right?"

The king stamped his axe haft into the ground. He gestured intelligently enough. Bob interpreted: "I'm going to throttle you, then break your neck, then grind your bones, then eat your heart."

Firm footing had really upped his confidence. You'd think he'd already won their fight. Bob couldn't really understand why. People do a lot of pointless things in their life. See, this here was mud territory. And in mud territory, Bob was the king.

Bob smiled cheerily and pointed down. The bandit king's eyes followed the finger. The finger pointing down into the mud. He understood.

Anyone, who has tasted the mud, understands.

He tried to make a run for it. But he was too slow and it was mud as far as the eye could see.

"Mudfall."

"Dammih Boh! I geh yuh. I geh yuh. Mahk meh wuhds.'"

The ground under the bandit king's feet dropped away.

Welcome home, old friend.