"No..." Bob fell to his knees and gazed appeasingly up to the heavens.
"Forgive me," he called out to the unforgiving world, he asked for mercy, he begged for it. But by the time man decides to pray, it's already too late.
The system had managed its long-term ambition. It had hit Bob right where it hurt, in his wisdom teeth. And Bob couldn't even complain. Bringing down a mudslide on top of yourself, your companion and a host of enemies surely demonstrated a lack of the thing we call "wisdom".
> Name: Robert Brown
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> Race: Human (lesser)
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> Class: Heaven's Fool
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> Level: 5 (72%)
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> Rank: E
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> Wealth: 4,881,400 credits
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> Stats:
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> * Strength - below average
> * Dexterity - average
> * Vitality - average
> * Constitution - pitiful
> * Wisdom - worm
> * Intelligence - illuminating
> * Will - strong
> * Luck - godly
"Wisdom - worm". What did that even mean? Did he have the wisdom of a worm, or was worm meant as an adjective describing something small, insignificant and wretched? Or wait, was the system alluding to his humiliating crawl to the spot where George had been buried. Sure it had been rather worm-like, but what had he been supposed to do. Low blow, system, low blow. Hit a man when he's down will you.
Chin up here Bob. Chin up. The system is watching you. If you let the system know it bothers you, it will just get worse. Good advice, though probably given too late, since he was already on his knees, begging for mercy, but it was worth a shot.
“Illuminating intelligence. What can I say? I'm a genius. And look at that, I’m almost at level 6. Child's play.” Bob spoke unnaturally loudly and in an artificial, jarring voice that wouldn’t have convinced a toddler. “Good haul. Good haul all round. Not bad for a night’s work.”
Bob gave a side-glance up to the sky, as though he might be able to read the expression of the heavens. No, the heavens were just as impervious and heartless as he remembered.
Bob had reached level five. He was one of the big boys now. The only cost, aside from severe bodily agony, a limp arm and the devastation of Bob’s capital city, was wisdom. And what do they say? Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. No need to wonder what happened to our philosopher kings then. So how did Bob line up against the world leaders:
> Quest: D Grade Evolution (World)
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> Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade
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> Time limit - one week
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> Current highest leveled sentient: 6
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> Remaining Time: 04:14:43:22
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> Reward: None
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> Penalty: World Recycling
Ha, only level 6. Bob was one away from the greats. Sounds about right. Nobody messes with the mud magician.
“George, what level are you?”
Bob put the question to the dog. The dog responded like a dog. He barked and wagged his tail. Fair play. Bob tried to reckon it backwards to himself. George had probably been high 3 or low 4 before their night adventure. And while Bob had done most of the massacring, George had certainly boiled a couple dozen snakes to death with his fire. He’d have to be in the fives, wouldn’t he? Five or just on the cusp.
Wow, from Bob’s perspective, the two of them had been bumbling along, making every possible mistake, tripping into every awkward situation; Bob imagined Death was sitting somewhere, eyes glued to the screen, huffing and groaning, so close, so close, I had em. And yet objectively speaking, they both sat at a cool level 5, just shy of the world leaders.
“George, you’re a legend.” He patted the dog, and in a quieter voice, “And so are you Bob.”
But wait a moment, when he'd checked the quest last night, he distinctly remembered seeing that the highest leveled sentient had been level 7. Bob let that fact sink in. Last night the highest leveled individual on earth had been level 7 and this morning the highest level individual on earth was level 6. Bob had learned just about enough mathematics to put two and two together. In other words, Bob hadn’t been the only one to have a bad night. Some try-hard, glory-hog had bitten the dust.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Bob put his hands together in prayer: thank you for your noble sacrifice in your valiant though futile efforts to save us, we weak, helpless citizens, from the world recycling. Rest in peace. That out of the way, Bob was free to start worrying. Because the current leader was only level 6. Bob and George were both around level 5. Bob and George, I mean come on, those clowns.
What were the chances this current leader wouldn’t get cut down in turn? Bob’s master plan of free riding on the coattails of danger-seeking maniacs was suddenly in jeopardy. And if nobody managed to reach level 10 by the end of the week… There were only five days left. Bob did a double-take and poked at the system overlay. Why did it say four days?
Looks like there was a reason Bob felt as passable as he did. He'd spent over twenty-four hours lying unconscious on the hillside. It was a miracle they hadn't been killed there. Or rather they had Harry to thank for that.
"Thank you Harry. Looks like we owe you even more than I realized."
A mud cloak against a landscape of mud proved to be effective camouflage. Obvious maybe, but we tend to overlook the obvious things. That was a strategy worth remembering.
A whole day had gone by, Bob mused, that meant his contract with three's company had expired. A fact he confirmed via his contracts tab. Those guys were probably out hunting for him right now. And Lad for one had seemed pretty confident in his tracking abilities. Wait, why hadn't they found him already? Maybe the mud cloak had foiled them. Or maybe they'd seen the devastated landscape and decided Bob was dead as dead. Or maybe they just hadn't gotten around to it yet? End on a happy thought, Bob, that's the way.
Bob had a lot to think about. A lot to process. He'd have to decide what he was going to do moving forward. He'd have to decide who he wanted to be. But not right now, right now, Bob needed some breakfast. He was battle-weary and battle-sore and hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in over twenty four hours.
“George, breakfast. I can’t be bothered to go fetch your food from the bathroom. I’ll just buy you something else.”
Bob didn’t have to worry about the weight restriction this time, so he picked up something a little nicer, with meat chunks and real ingredients. The dog had surely earned it. He also purchased another bowl. A bright, red, plastic one. The bowl and tin dropped down in front of them. Bob sandwiched the tin into the armpit of his dead arm and managed to peel off the metal covering. He poured the brown, gooey substance into the bowl.
George rushed over. Two pops and George’s original bowl and the earlier box of dog food appeared.
“I thought I put that high up on the counter where you couldn’t reach.”
George wagged his tail.
“I don’t know how it makes me feel to be outsmarted by you.”
Bob shook his head.
“Hey! I bet you waited until I’d already bought you another one, before bringing it out, didn’t you? Tricky customer.”
Bob resigned himself to pouring out a second bowl for the dog. George started happily on his two-course, mud-themed meal. Bob really had to give that dog a bath somehow. He looked like a subterranean creature.
Bob began to browse for himself. There was a good selection. You couldn’t fault system takeout. Bob wondered if there was some low-wage worker on another planet cooking the stuff. The ingredients were largely unfamiliar, but the pictures and descriptions gave a man enough to work with. He found what was practically a fish and chips shop and ordered himself a large fillet. It popped out of the air in a cardboard box and spilled all over the floor. Wasn't ready, was I? He’d leave that one for George, Bob decided.
This time Bob readied himself. He mentally clicked "order". The cardboard box appeared in front of him and fell neatly into the cradle of his outstretched arm. Bob’s plans always worked out. Sometimes he felt sorry for other, less-fortunate folk. He set the box on his knees and popped open the lid. Now we are talking. A large fried fillet in a golden, crispy batter, nestled on a small-mountain of yellow chips.
It was good too. The fish wasn’t exactly white inside. More of a bluish, grey. Maybe it wasn’t even a fish at all. But it had the right consistency. And a spot of lemon juice gave the thing a nice, acidic tang that really complimented the batter. Bob put away the whole thing and sighed contently. Maybe, and he gave this praise with every reservation, just maybe there were a few peaks of post-system living. The food had helped restore Bob’s spirits a little. The pain hadn’t disappeared, but it had reminded him that life wasn’t just mud, death and suffering.
George staggered over. He’d finished his two full bowls and managed to polish off three-quarters of the fish and chips that had fallen to the ground. Needless to say, the dog didn’t look so good. “Maybe you didn’t have to scoff down every last fry?” Bob chided. George, attracted by the noise, sort of swayed over, bumping gently into Bob. The dog opened his mouth…and hurled his breakfast all over the poor man.
“What the…” Bob crawled back as the dog started hacking up the last of it. “Dammit George, I’m covered in the stuff.”
Mud, sick and suffering. Bob looked at himself. Bob smelled himself. Cleanliness was an ideal. And man could only aspire. Bob gave George the evil eye.
“Why the hell you have to come all the way over here just to throw up on me? Second time in as many days. You've got a problem George.”
George whined.
“Ah man,” he patted the dog on the stomach (from as far away as he could), “you’ll be fine George, you just ate too much. What did you think would happen if you ate three times your usual portion.”
The dog was lying on the ground, groaning, but lapping tentatively now and again at the puddle of sick.
“George, sometimes I forget you’re just a dog.”
Bob left George to his seconds. He needed to do something about his personal hygiene. Thankfully Harry had taken the brunt of the blow.
“Harry, let's clean you up.”
Bob shifted the cloak into its liquid form and the sick trickled through and splattered on the ground. Bob proceeded to put ten paces and the spot. Much better. In a perfect world, he'd have liked to jump into a hot shower, but he didn't quite see how that could be managed in the wilderness. They'd just have to keep their eyes open for a stream.
Bob needed a chair, a thinking chair. The last one had been lost to the night attack, so he just purchased himself another. At the same, he got himself a warmer shirt, a pair of trousers, some new socks and shoes (velcro so he could put them on with one hand). Being obscenely wealthy really did simplify some things. Feeling significantly more comfortable than he had done, he plopped himself down in his chair and put on his thinking cap. What's the plan Bob?