George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob toppled over. Face in the mud. Welcome home, old friend.

He was amazed he'd been able to stand so long. His ears were ringing and the sky waltzed around him in violent, dizzying circles. He managed to fish out a health patch. The sky calmed down a little. He slapped on another. The sky started to quiet. He slapped on another. The world was numb. He couldn't feel the cold rain as it fell down on top of him.

He squinted. Small explosions of fire. He smiled.

Good, old George was stomping about like some miniature Godzilla, breathing out fire and catch-poping any incoming attacks. The poor bandits didn't have a chance. They were screaming and panicking. They were a headless chicken without their leader, flapping about aimlessly, shedding feathers, tripping over. How long would it take them to realise they were already dead?

Confident stupidity. Maybe that's the price of invincibility. Because if the bandits had thought a "reinforced" muzzle would stop Sir George, they weren't paying enough for their life insurance. Like a muzzle could stop the angel of death? The moment the bandit king had been otherwise engaged: Pop! And the muzzle was gone. And the fluffy, good-natured golden battleship was firing on all cylinders.

There were only two bandits left. Scratch that. One of them had just taken a fireball to the chest. And the last man had concluded Retriever Godzilla > Bandit King and was lacing up his running-away shoes. He slipped in the wet mud and George beamed fire across him. The show's over boys. Time to go home.

George strutted over to his recumbent master. He wanted the reward head-pats that were his due. And Bob wouldn't hold back. He reached out his hand and then... stopped. The hand frozen in midair just above George's head. George whined.

George had killed a man. George had killed many men. The field was littered with black corpses. Poor, friendly George. The dog looked at him. Red tongue, brown nose, eyes wanting reassurance.

Bob bit his lip. And that's what a knight was, wasn't it? In the beginning. A soldier. A man who kills other men. Maybe for good reasons, maybe for the best. But blood doesn't wash out. It wasn't the same George any more. But it was still Bob's George. Still Sir George of Mud.

Bob stroked the dog's head. George sighed contently and nestled up closer, Bob pulling himself up into a sitting position. They sat there together, Harry draped over them both, as the rain fell down and churned up the mud. They sat there for a long moment. A man and his dog.

Of course, Bob was keeping a mental eye trained on the bandit king's position. The king was a powerful mud swimmer. He demonstrated a fine mud crawl that would have medaled in the Olympics. He grunted and strained, thrusting himself towards the surface. But Bob made sure that the mud moved just as fast in the opposite direction. Equilibrium must be maintained.

And although the evolution to Rank-D edged one towards a true mana body, you were still flesh and blood and apprehension. You still had to breathe in oxygen and metabolize glucose. And if a thing had to breathe, a thing could suffocate to death. It might just take a while.

Bob was happy to wait. He needed a little breather himself. He would stand death-guard after the bandit king until nature and mud done had their work. Until he had fulfilled his oath and saved his city.

"Bob, what's going on?"

Bob jumped up. Suddenly tense. George snarled. Now was not a good time for enemy reinforcements. The majority of his mental energy was committed to the trapping spell. Not to mention, his mana expenditure. Things could go pear-shaped very fast.

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"Who goes there?"

The figure stepped forward into the light spilling out from the mud dome.

"What the hell? Ali, what are you doing here?"

"What are you blathering on about? I told you I'd come looking for you. Is your memory okay? Did somebody hit you on the head? The city? Exile? The council? The name Uruk ringing any bells?"

"Oh, well, now that you mention it, I might have taken a few head blows." Bob frowned, "Sure, I guess I remember you saying something like that."

Ali was taking the opportunity to survey his surroundings. Bodies. Fire. Blood. A one sided slaughter.

"Bob, care to give a man, two words of explanation."

"Oh, you know. The usual." Bob shrugged. "Ambushed by bandits. They caught me..." Bob hesitated. "Well, let's just say they caught me unawares."

"Really? Cause you look pretty good and I see heaps of corpses."

"I don't like to brag, Ali, but, you know I'm kinda strong. And George did most of it. Anyway, you should start calling me a tactical genius. Ah Ali, if you had seen my daring plan and the way it played out like clockwork, well, you might just treat me with the respect I deserve."

"And the bandit king?"

George started barking at Ali.

"George, calm down. It's Ali, you remember Ali. You've gotten paranoid, old friend. I get it. I get it. I'm a bit paranoid myself these days."

George stopped barking. But he sniffed a couple times. He tilted his head like he wasn't entirely satisfied and then curled up on the ground. He kept both eyes open (most unusual) and trained them on Ali.

"The bandit king's down there," Bob motioned with his chin.

"Dead?"

"Practically, well, not exactly. He's still trying to get out, but matter of time and all. I've got things under control."

Ali looked shocked. His face had gone pale.

"You really didn't believe in me, did you? It's alright, Ali." Bob clapped on the shoulder. "I didn't really believe in myself."

Ali was at lost for words.

"Ali, this is good news. Bandit crisis is over. We can go back to the city and have them reinstate me. All's well that ends well. I won't hold grudges. I do reserve the right to throw Conor in a mud cell for a few days though. Trojan turtle incident and all."

"Bob well about that." Ali didn't seen to know what to say. He was half mumbling. "The council, you remember how they get, and that Conor miscreant has been stirring them up, well, er... long story short, there's talk of—"

Bob held up a warning hand. The bandit king was trying something. Bob hadn't been paying enough attention. The bandit king had been gradually maneuvered towards a large subterranean boulder.

"Crap, crap! Hard mud!"

Bob closed his eyes. He concentrated his whole attention on the freezing the mud around the mud king, on pushing the king back and away. He could do this. One final effort and it would be all be over. He could go to sleep. Sleep! He could find Sophie and tell her he forgave her and that he wanted her back and that he understood it all. Happily ever after, Bob. One final effort.

Ping!

Bob gasped. He clutched a hand to his chest. Something warm was dribbling out.

Pain. And then a burst of fragrance. Familiar. Nostalgic. Intoxicating.

George howled—then bolted. The fragrance overwhelming him.

Bob opened his eyes. He almost managed a smile. Because standing in front of him was... Sophie. Of course it was Sophie.

"Now that I think about it, you never did tell me what your second power was," Bob choked out.

Sophie, those black eyes, that white dress, wet in the rain, her long hair sticking to her neck and, a poisoned dagger in her hand.

"I'm sorry, Robert. I'm sorry."

She was crying. Somehow a crying woman can get away with anything.

"I've committed myself. I signed a contract with the bandit king. He must survive. I'll be ruined, Robert. I'll have nothing left. And you would come after me."

"Sophie," Bob was whispering now and Sophie had to lean closer to catch the words, "I wouldn't have come after you. I would have forgiven you. I like you, Sophie. You knew that. You always did."

"You are just saying that. I don't believe. I betrayed you."

"I would have forgiven you, Sophie."

Her breath caught.

"I know you've been using your power on me."

A violent shake of the head. "No, no—"

Bob smiled bitterly. "I've always known. I didn't care."

He stepped towards her. She shrank back. "It could've been like old times."

Bob jerked out the dagger. She stared wide-eyed. "We could have had everything."

"But, but, but it's poisoned... You should have passed out. You should be dead. You should be dying. How, how..."

Bob kicked Sophie away. She staggered back and fell to the ground. She really wasn't suited to combat, was she? How terribly weak she was... How helpless before him. And Bob strode towards her now. The bloody, poisoned dagger in his hand. And she cowered before him.

Achievement Upgraded: Poisonous - > Toxic