George Knows Best [Mud Wizard LitRPG]

Bob slowly backed away, as the bandit king towered forward.

George's stick wasn't going to save him. It was a neat party-trick and a premium dog toy, but it wasn't Excaliborn. And it wasn't going to save Bob. They both saw that now. They both saw that here was a story with only one end. And there would be no more putting it off.

Bob was breathing heavily, barely able to stand. His strength was failing him. He had hit the wall. The dizziness was back. And there was a ringing sound from nowhere and everywhere at once. His head hurt, his arms hurt, his mana was running out. The gash across his front oozed out blood. Bob was at the very edge, teetering. A strong wind would have downed him. He was no demigod. No great hero. He was only a man, a plain, blunt man that loved his dog. And it wasn't enough.

The bandit king was proud, tall, unshakable. He was wearing his villain smile. His we-both-know-how-this-going-to-end grin. He was without fear, without pain, without hesitation. His fingers drummed impatiently against the haft of his axe. Lusting for blood. Lusting for that last stroke of the axe and the thud of a man's head hitting the dirt. What did he have to fear? What could possibly terrify him? When he still held his final trump card, the joker in the pack, five seconds of absolute invulnerability.

Nothing. There would be no more aid. Gandalf on his white horse would not ride in on the dawn with an army of fresh soldiers. Bob was alone now. Alone in that special way only a duel to the death can do to you. Alone before a great enemy. Where the only way to freedom is straight through the undefeated champion. Yes, the rest, that impossible distance between here and victory, Bob would have bridge himself. Or die trying.

He leaned into the empty mud mind. You are the illusion. Pain is a dream. Weariness is a surrender. Defeat is a state of mind. He was as unreadable as the depths of a mud pool, as sudden and decisive as the mud slide, as slow and inevitable as the meandering mud stream.

And it wasn't enough.

The king was thunder and lightning. He was hammer and anvil. He shred through mud chains. He scoffed off full-power punches. He minced poor Harry's fingers. He was the lion on the hunt tasting the kill in the air.

Bob strove. He wrestled against death. He dodged and rolled and fought back like the cornered animal he was. The axe whistled across. Bob ducked under it. The king stamped down. Bob couldn't get his foot out of the way. He winced in pain. Harry exploded out mud. The king didn't even budge. Bob jerked back his foot. The king stepped inside and swept out his legs.

Bob fell backwards. He was awkward, exhausted, punch-drunk. Harry cushioned the fall. Harry tried to bounce Bob back up to his feet. But there was the bandit king's iron boot pounding down. Harry shifted, throwing the boot out and into the air.

It wasn't enough.

The bandit king didn't even stumble. He rammed his axe shaft down. Squeak! Bob got the stick around just in time.

It wasn't enough.

The bandit king kicked out Bob's elbow and stomped the shaft down again. Bob took it square in the chest. He gasped out blood and coughed violently. And the bandit king pressed, crushing Bob into the ground.To the Mud! Bob started to sink down. The bandit king fell on him. Bob convulsed. He writhed. He thrashed.

It wasn't enough.

The bandit king had him pinned down. Left knee locking the stick arm. Left stump jammed into Bob's throat. Harry fought. Harry tried. He savaged the bandit king's chest, mud spikes and mud fangs and mud fists. The bandit king didn't even flinch.

It wasn't enough. It was never, never enough.

The axe came up. Came up for the last time.

Here it was. At last. How this story was always going to end. Convergent evolution. All paths leading to this one place. To this death. You escape only to be drawn right back. Led like Oedipus to the very fate he had so desperately tried to avoid.

Death was smiling down on Bob. Finally. Finally, Death whispered. Bob closed his eyes.

The axe came down. Came down for the last time.

Laughter.

Then a thud!

Then a scream. An unbearable, unearthly sound of suffering.

Bob lay there. The heavy axe fallen down into the mud beside him. Just where the bandit king had dropped it. And over Bob, the bandit king shuddered and twisted with pain. But through the pain, even as he shivered and trembled, even as he fought to keep consciousness, the bandit king reached out for his weapon. And finally Bob understood. Bob desperately jerked the weapon away. Not far enough. The bandit king lunged for it.

But Bob wasn't alone.

A golden streak dove forward and snatched up the axe handle. George knew a good stick when he saw one. The bandit king moaned, reaching longingly after the weapon, but he was too slow. The dog was pitching it to the hills, hurtling at top speed.

The axe. The bandit king's weapon.

Why hadn't Bob wondered before? Why hadn't he realized? It was the king's companion object. And what was its power? It all made sense now. The way he ate up punishment. Almost like he couldn't even feel the attacks. The way he nonchalantly cut off his own arm. The way he laughed as he had half his face burned off. He couldn't feel anything.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Bob had only been trying to twist the tickle-stick around and block the king's attack. And he'd missed. He'd fallen short. He'd only reached as far as the big man's armpit. Rustle. Rustle. But laughter is a great power in the world. And the axe had thudded down into the mud. And now, and now, the bandit king could feel everything.

Pain beyond pain, beyond pain. The bandit king's body spasmed. He writhed. He tore at his own skin. Tears of blood rolled down his face. How he screamed. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed. Like he was being tortured to death right there and then. And so he was.

Pain. Pain to the point of madness, mind-shattering, soul-crushing, hell-scape agony. The bandit king crumbled over. His body contorted and thrashed. He howled and he howled. Bob closed his eyes. Bob blocked out his ears. It was too much to witness, to experience. It almost felt like Bob too was dying there. "Stop, stop, stop," Bob mumbled to himself. But the soulless voice carried on, pitched and crescendoed, echoed and overlapped. The end of the world. And then, and then...

Silence.

"Oh no."

The ruined, wretched, dying man was gone. And in his place, the king. The king was shining, his whole person emanating power, gleaming with the aura of the gods.

Indomitable, Inviolable, Invincible!

Bob dived for the man, hooking an elbow around his neck. He grappled with him, doing everything he could to pull him down and pin him in place. They only had to hold him. Five seconds. Five seconds and it would all be over. Five long seconds.

"Run, George, run. Don't look back!"

Five.

The king pillared up. Bob was dust before him. Less than annoyance. Less than nothing. The king didn't even see him. He had eyes for one thing only. For the golden retriever and his big stick. Boom! The king kicked off the ground, cratering the soft earth, as he bulleted after George.

George was pelting into the darkness, tongue lolling out of his mouth, ears slicked back, tail rowing from side to side. The dog was galloping for all he was worth. His legs paddling forward. His ears slicked back. In his race against death.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

George lobbed out everything and anything he could. Mud walls, slime acid, great big stones, assorted furniture, a taxidermy exhibition of local wildlife corpses. Books, dog treats, the contents of Bob's wardrobe, silverware and fine china, half-chewed grass, bubble mixture.

Four.

The bandit king bulldozed forward. Unstoppable. He pulverized mud walls. He waded through slime acid. He hurdled stones. He scrapyarded furniture. He exploded through corpses. He burned books. He crumbled dog treats. He tore through clothing. He shattered dishware. He drank down bubble mixture. Nothing could touch him. And through it all, Bob clung madly to his back, hanging on for dear life.

But every step, the bandit king was gaining. He was Death. The inevitable. The inexorable. He that cannot be escaped. The darkness that closes in when lights go out. The great emptiness of space. The relentless ticking of the clock.

They wouldn't make it. They wouldn't make it.

Three.

Bob clawed at the king's neck. He froze his feet to the ground. He mummied him in rolls of Harry. But the bandit king steamed forward. A bullet train slicing through any and all obstacle. Relentless. Momentum personified. The arrow of God.

Bob hooded him in mud. He plugged up his ears and nose. But the bandit king forged on. He was beyond the senses. The honing missile. The plunging meteorite. His companion object spoke to him across the void. It called out to him.

Two.

George was huffing and puffing. Sweating and groaning. Too many dog treats. Too fat. Too little exercise. The bandit king was on his tail. In his shadow. The bandit king lunged.

Pop!

Out came a waterfall. A lake's worth of water. The great tide of the sea. But the king is greater than the tides. He cut through, unhindered and relentless. He was so close. So close he could almost taste the dog in the air.

Pop! Desperate, hopeless. And out came the trusty staircase. Five brick steps. And George was hopping up the stairs. The bandit king—misstepped, blinded and thrown off by the sudden shift in geography, but he corrected immediately, shooting after the dog.

Bob tried to think. What could he do? How do you stop the unstoppable? He had already done everything. What was there left to try? He riffled through the bandit king's pockets. And, and, there it was—

Pop! George had summited the stairs and leapt across to a narrow ridge of wall. But the bandit king was right behind him, on the penultimate step, crouching down, just about to push off.

Pop! The staircase disappeared. The king was—no, he'd gotten away just in time. He crashed, smack, right into George and shattered them both over the edge and into the ground. Bob was torn away and thrown out to the side. What was happening?

One.

Smoke and dust and mud. The bandit king was on top of the dog. George was pinned. The axe still clamped down in his jaws.

Within reach.

The hand of God reached out for his weapon. And the hand of God found it. He had done it. The bandit king had done it. The pain was gone. He was free. Victory.

Zero.

A flicker of golden fire. A miniature sun.

Inside George's mouth was an inferno. A bubbling hot star.

But the bandit king didn't pull away his hand. He wouldn't let go. He couldn't. He held it there inside the firestorm. The skin incinerated. The fat melted and smoked. The bones went hard, then brittle, then caught fire and burned with a misty, white flame. But he didn't let go. He couldn't. He yanked feebly at the weapon, but George was grinding down on the axe handle.

Finally, he kicked viciously and the dog yelped as he released the weapon. The bandit king had done it. He had done it. He rose to his feet. Trembling with exaltation, with relief, with the numbness of a world without pain. There was no stopping him now.

Crack. The axe was too heavy; his hand was a skeletal ruin, crumbling white dust. The bone cracked and the axe slipped through.

Bob punted it away. And the proud king, the invincible god, crawled after it, moaning and shivering. But there would be no relief. No escaping this time. The mud rippled up and the axe was swallowed under, deep, deep into the ground.

The king collapsed down. Agony, agony, worse for the remembering, worse for the dreams of opium. Agony, agony, agony.

Bob reached down and picked up a white dagger. The bandit king had been carrying it on his person the whole time. Excaliborn. It had been right there. His blade.

The bandit king was crumbled on the ground, moaning and shivering. Begging for an end. Begging for the final death. The last sleep. The silence of story's end.

Bob weighed the blade in his hand. Then he knelt down. Took the king into his arms. The ruined, broken king, shivering with the pain's cold, bubbled spit hanging from his lip. And then Bob slide the dagger into the man's chest. He died instantly.

So ends the reign of the king.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Bob toppled over. Wanting even the strength to stand. He was so far past his limit.

"George."

The dog poked his nose into Bob's field of vision.

"George, I figured it out. I know what your second power is. It's... It's..."

But Bob couldn't keep his eyes open. "Let me just close my eyes a little. Just a short nap. Ten minutes."

Pop!

A dog bed appeared over Bob. It fell down on top of Bob covering up his face. But Bob didn't even have the strength to complain. A muffled voice came through the material.

"Cheers mate."