Bob's high-minded and revolutionary lecture on the grand laws of magic was not properly appreciated by his magical peers. Baser minds are quickly distracted by perceived failure and throw out a man's ideas with the man himself.

If the assembled mages had been a little more charitable, they might have seen that the "splattering incident" was, if anything, even more instructive than the original demonstration. After all, it was nothing more nor less than the natural consequences of magic's three laws applied mercilessly and indiscriminately. Like all good laws of nature, the laws of magic had blatantly ignored Bob's intentions and robotically enacted their principles.

It was not a simple matter of over-applying mana, though the ignorant might be forgiven for thinking so. Remember the first law: the conceivability principle. The magician sets out the method, the how of magic, and magic blindly obeys. Mana is just the fuel. It is taken as needed and expended to execute the spell design. Bob had actually made a point of attempting to intentionally overcharge a spell. The result was a more expensive spell that did the same thing. In other words, any excess mana was just wasted, leeched back into the atmosphere most likely.

No, Bob had blundered in the design phase. Bob's conception of the necessary force to propel the mud a couple inches in the air had been, well let's say, over-generous. It was hard to judge these things. Bob didn't yet have the instinctive feel that let humans judge complicated forces and angles without thinking. And the spell had executed his design perfectly, choosing to disregard any discrepancy between what he had wanted to happen and what would actually happen.

And even that initial error might not have proved fatal. Now if, for example, it had been his mud cloak, to which Bob possessed an inherent, no-latency connection, Bob might have been able to curb his enthusiasm through a second, slowing spell. But unfortunately the target object had been a mud ball. And the locality's principle meant that the moment he'd lost direct contact with the ball, he'd lost the ability to influence its actions. This prevented him from slowing it down or altering its course in mid flight. The consequences were still dripping down Bob's face.

And Bob smiled through the consequences. Lesser mages might not appreciate the point, but embarrassing, dramatic accidents are par for the course in the study of the mystic arts. They just proved he was a magician willing to push the boundaries of his art. A bonus of the accident was that George had finally shown interest. The dog had wandered over and started to help lick away the mud on Bob's face. "Thanks boy, I appreciate the moral support."

Bob was ready. He was finally ready. He was hesitant, fearful, paranoid and fundamentally lazy, but he understood the inevitable. Bob's only choice. Scratch that. Bob and George's only choice was to level up. To level up and get stronger. They didn't have to become heroes or gods. Bob didn't want to be Hokage or any other such nonsense. He just needed to be strong enough to fend off three's company and any other scavengers that might come looking for the sack of gold tied around Bob's pretty head. Bob and George were going hunting.

“George, I’m warning you. This is not a pleasure stroll.” Bob addressed his remark to the golden dog’s backside as the dog skittered around, nose to the ground, zigzagged backwards and forward.

“We’re going hunting. You understand. Hunting. We need to sneak up on things. Stealth. Subterfuge. Subtlety. If you rush down, barking your head off at the first sign of anything, we are going to die.”

George didn’t respond, only wagging his tail a little and peeping back at Bob every time his name was said. Somehow Bob felt like he hadn’t quite gotten through to the animal.

They’d been walking only five minutes and Bob was seriously debating tying the animal to some post and going on alone. George had already dashed off twice without warning, leaving Bob to chase after with his heart in his mouth. The first time, it'd been another one of those Raupenfliegers. George did not remember them fondly. And this one died in a sharp and furious burst of red fire, its acidic internal liquids vaporized instantly. That was one way to deal with them.

The second time George had found some kind of animal trail and started exploring it with the eager abandon of a child. Animal trail was the wrong word Bob discovered. When Bob had reached the spot, he'd seen a six foot highway of dead, brown grass extending in both directions. The place had an acidic, tangy odor. And there was what looked like slime smeared all over the place.

George had promptly licked up some of the stuff. And promptly started spitting it out, belching the slime back out on the ground with coughs of black smoke. It hadn’t agreed with his constitution. So George, in his wisdom, decided to wash it down with some muddy, stagnant water he'd found, while Bob facepalmed and worried about the dog catching dysentery or some other equally unpleasant disease that would make sharing shelter with the animal an absolute nightmare.

The "animal trail" had spooked Bob. It didn’t take much hard thinking for Bob to see that some enormous animal had slithered through here. Most likely something from the snail or slug family. Six foot wide and who knew how long, the thing must be an absolute monster. Bob shuddered to realize that they were still only a couple hundred meters distant from their camp. If that thing waddled on top of their tent in the night while they were both asleep... Well let's just say they wouldn't wake up in the morning.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

And here was George bouncing around happily. Even a mouthful of poisonous acid hadn't discouraged the dog. George was celebrating his second walk in the same day. It was a rare treat for a dog who frequently didn't even get one (what? A man's gotta work don't he?).

But Bob couldn't share his companion's self-assurance. He was a good deal more wary and cynical than his carefree pet. He knew the system. Oh yes, he knew the system all too well and he would bet money there were strong enemies nearby. Probably lots and probably far stronger than George and himself. Just look at that slime trail.

And Bob had every confidence that George would find said enemies and bring them laughing back straight to where Bob stood. Bob had no desire to become a second cautionary tale: curiosity killed the dog; and its master too. Thus Bob’s paranoid caution.

Yes Bob had seriously debated walking George back to the bathroom and closing the door on him. The problem was, yes, when Bob was honest with himself, the hard truth, and Bob didn’t like to say it aloud, but George, his dog, was significantly stronger than him. Bob had watched George’s fire breath melt a patch of landscape to a black, ashen sludge. The extent of Bob’s power, on the other hand, was a halting ability to influence the surrounding mud and passable control of his cloak. It wasn’t hard to see which of the two would be doing the heavy lifting.

But there was a more fundamental reason Bob felt he had to drag George along with him (or be dragged along with George). George needed to get stronger too. This new world was a right lonely place and Bob didn’t want to have to leave behind his best friend. Bob and George, they were a team, even if they sure as hell hadn’t figured out how to act like one yet. Nope, Bob would stick with George, through thick and thin, through fire and ice. They'd be alright. Bob would keep George in line and prevent him from getting into the worst trouble. "You and me— George, George, come back boy. George, no, George, dammit all.”

There had been a rustle in the grasses a few meters to their left and George wanted no better invitation. The canine plunged into the bushes, desperately seeking his own and Bob's destruction. Bob sprinting after, cursing himself for bringing along the brute and threatening unspeakable things on his happy-go-lucky companion. He pulled out the tutorial knife (just in case), though a hell of a lot of good it would do him in a fight.

When George stopped to sniff the ground, Bob dived at him, tackling the dog down. George barked and struggled. “Shut up, George.” The dog rolled up onto his feet and made to push forward, but Bob had him by the collar. There, only a stone’s throw away, was a rustling movement through the grasses.

Bob swallowed, heart pounding, and stared at the spot. A system annotation helpfully appeared: Spinnenhüpfer (lvl 5). Bob swore silently to himself. He and George were both level 1. They'd taken damage from a flying caterpillar for heaven's sake. A level 5 meant trouble. A level 5 might be the end of the line. Maybe it wouldn't notice them and they could let it pass.

Fat chance. Of course, the rustle and its corresponding annotation were steadily approaching their position. George’s earlier barking had definitely alerted the monster. That dog had a death wish. We'll just back away now. Let’s slowly back away.

“George, bloody hell,” Bob hissed in as angry a whisper as he could manage. The dog was pulling on his collar with all his might. Bob yanked hard and the dog whined in pain. Bob stopped immediately.

“George, please, please boy; you’ve got to come with me.” The level five monster was dangerously close now. Paces away.

“George, you've got to listen to me. Please, George.” Bob’s panic seemed to communicate itself to the dog, because George stopped pulling and looked thoughtfully at Bob (probably wondering how he could comfort his master).

That was when the underbrush directly ahead of them started to shake. George turned and snarled at the approaching enemy. Bob got eyes on the monster at last. It was a spider-like creature, but swollen up to the size of a wild turkey, with grasshopper back-legs, folded and powerful looking. Its skin was a black and green camouflage that melded well with the grassland terrain.

"That’s a level 5 monster," Bob muttered to himself, setting his jaw and searching his pockets for something like courage. The spider made Grumpy-nose, the boar, look like a little boy's cuddly toy. Damn, he must have dropped his courage somewhere, because he sure as hell couldn't find it in his back pocket. Never can find courage when you need it.

Bob could feel sweat rolling down his forehead. His hands felt cold and clumsy. His throat was strangely dry. He swallowed and swallowed, but it only got drier and drier. This here, this here, why this here looks something like the end...

"You're a wizard Bob."

"What did you say?"

"You're a wizard Bob. You're not the same fish out of water you were in the initiation. You can handle this, no probs. Give him a taste of your mud powers."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe, okay, okay, I can do this." Bob put a hand on the ground. He felt the mud. He felt that double-sensation, his special mud sense. He concentrated, imagining exactly what he wanted to happen. A sphere of the stuff exploded out of the ground and flew straight at the spider. Splat, direct hit, bull’s eye, bang in the eyes. "Take that!"

Bob was chuffed. That was a mud-shot wasn’t it? Pure and true. Mud-bullet maybe? He'd never been able to manage the operation so smoothly in practice. Nothing like life and death pressure to improve performance. Really, wow. That had been clean, swift, precise. Bob hadn't given himself enough credit. Wish the other mages could have seen that. Miss. Wobblewand be damned.

Bob stopped self-congratulating himself long enough to examine his adversary. The mud had started to drip down and slide off. The monster looked completely unharmed. It had only paused, momentarily stunned by the sudden mud splatter. That made sense. Who ever heard of someone dying from getting hit by a ball of mud? Bob groaned as he staggered back a step.

"Why is my power shit?" He asked of the heavens. The heavens only laughed.