Bob stroked his chin fluff, mud mantle draped around him, hood up and slouched in a green camping chair. "The time has come," Bob mumbled to himself, "the time has come." He stroked his chin again and repeated the words: "the time has come." The hood had fallen a little too far down and was partially blocking out his vision. He tapped it up and said again: "the time has come."
He fell into a daze for half a minute and then suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, "the time has come," a breath of space passed and then in a deep, rolling chant, "the time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things, of shoes and ships, and sealing-wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings."
"Dammit Bob this is no time to be quoting Alice in Wonderland to yourself."
"Sorry, sorry, it's good stuff though, isn't it?"
"Sure, very creative—oh no you don't, don't change the topic on me."
Bob slouched back down into the chair. Something about the modern lifestyle makes it absolutely repellent to the modern individual to sit silently and just think. Somewhere along the way, we lost that ability, along with how to squat, how to walk barefoot, or how to comfortably fast for extended periods of time. Yet sitting and thinking and planning were exactly what was required of our hero at the present moment. Bob got to work.
Four days. Four days left and the system swoops down and kills everyone. That is unless some champion emerges and reaches level ten before the time limit. Bob had been walking around taking that outcome for granted, but now he had his doubts. It wasn't as easy as in the video games. The lack of respawning really did put a damper on things. Not to mention every level was harder than the one before it. And the high level monsters were truly terrifying adversaries. One mistake, one night ambush, one misjudged enemy and another champion would bite the dust.
Did the fate of the world rest on Bob’s shoulders? He was the lord of the earth, wasn’t he? It was his duty, his obligation, his destiny. He ought to be that champion. Bugger off. Bob didn’t care a fig for any of that. He was no saint. He was passably moral, maybe, you know, in an everyman sort of way. He paid his taxes didn’t he? Remember all the gods together had to force the mantle of the sky on poor Atlas. That’s practically a divine parable of responsibility evasion. He sure wasn't about to take that weight on voluntarily.
Unfortunately, Bob and his companion George both happened to be residents of this blue planet. The blue planet on the chopping block. Could Bob do it? Could Bob be earth's champion? Maybe he could do it. He was stronger than he had been, wasn't he? He'd massacred hundreds of worm-snakes in a single blow. He was level five, wasn't he? And he had the fire-breathing George at his side.
Sure, true, Bob had pulled off a bit of coup with the mudslide. But those circumstances weren't exactly reproducible. He'd have to lure an enemy onto low ground. He'd need a rain storm, a steep slope, a small mountain of mud. And even then, some monsters would probably still survive. That level 9 unicorn-beetle, for example, could probably have tanked the attack. Of course, there was also the small matter that Bob would be knocked out for a full day from overdrawing his mana. Not exactly a full-proof combat strategy.
In short, wasn't Bob just as weak as before? Weaker maybe. He shifted his shoulder forward and watched the dead arm pendulum back and forth. Those level ups had only impacted his luck and intelligence, while his constitution and wisdom had actually been debuffed. If anything, wasn't he even more weak and fragile, even more likely to blunder into some dead trap, than he had been this morning?
That thought struck home. Bob was still weak. He was still weak. He might have survived the night attack. He might have saved George this time. But he was still just as weak and helpless as he'd always been. And the next time, what would happen the next time, or the time after? Somehow he'd tricked himself into thinking he'd gotten stronger. But it wasn't true. Dammit Bob, when are you going to stop lying to yourself.
"I'm weak," he whispered the words like he was afraid somebody was listening. Not quiet enough though, because he heard them and they seared into him. He was weak. And the fate of the weak is to suffer. Earth's champion? Don't make me laugh. What had given him that absurd idea?
Bob was destined to be cut down helpless and begging for mercy so he could be a stepping stone for some bigger man. And George would die there with him, guarding the fallen body of his master. That was their fate. They might be able to hide for a while, to cheat death for a time, but death was coming. Death had his eyes on them already. Death was already close beside.
Bob replayed those moments on the hillside, even as they hurt him, even as he felt his insides burn and twist, and the anger and dread shudder through him; he watched George scramble and flounder, he heard George whine and call out, caught in the deadly, snake-filled waters, he felt that bitter hopelessness, he remembered almost leaving the dog there. Bob had almost done that. Bob had almost abandoned his friend. Why? Because he was weak. Not just in his physical strength or in his magic, but in his heart, because his first instinct was always to choose the easier way.
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Bob felt a slow fire, kindling inside him. Good, good. He was glad he'd almost betrayed his friend. He was glad every sentient was out for his blood. He was glad the system held the world in its fist and was threatening to squeeze. He was glad he’d lost his arm. He was glad for it all, for these misfortunes, for this suffering and danger. This was what he needed. This was how he would change. Because he would change. He would grow stronger. And the next time his friend called, he'd answer.
He smiled at the dead arm. This here was his reminder, his lesson in the truths of our new world and he'd have to carry it around with him to the end of his days. Good, good. Every jolt of pain, every little inconvenience, they were all reminders of this determination, of this truth. He wouldn’t be allowed to forget. Some men are made by their good fortune, and others, others are made by their misfortune.
"The time has come," Bob rose up from the camp chair, "the time has come." George snapped up and trotted over. "Let us make a name for ourselves in this land." Bob reached down and ran his fingers through the dog's muddy fur.
Strength is a choice. And Bob had made his choice. Getting by wasn't enough any more. Just surviving wasn't worth it. Bob had decided he was going to be stronger. Yes, because he had the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Yes, because if no one reached level 10, the world and everyone in it would be “recycled.” But more than any of those, he didn’t want to feel weak. He couldn't, no he wouldn't, stand and helplessly watch George die. The time has come.
Bob turned to face George. "I should've done this a long time ago. But I'm doing it now."
George stopped and stood gravely to attention.
"George give me your stick."
George tried to act nonchalant, but Bob could see the request had shaken him. George pretended he hadn't understood.
"George, your stick."
George shuffled a little in place, before: pop; the stick appeared in George's mouth.
"Drop it."
George held on to the stick.
"Drop it, George."
George whined a little out of the side of his mouth, but he released the stick into Bob's mud hand. The cloak gripped the stick and flipped it over, storing it at Bob's hip, like it were a sheathed blade.
Bob stood himself up to his full height. He squared his shoulders. He stared regally off into the distance. He addressed the dog, standing to attention, in serious, imperative tones.
“Noble squire, George Brown. Will you swear an oath of fealty to your lord and master, Viscount Robert Brown.”
Bark.
“Very well. Then repeat after me: Hear me, ye heavens and earth,”
Bark, Bark Bark.
“I, George Brown, first of his name,”
Bark, Bark Bark, Bark of his Bark.
“Do swear by my stick”
Bark Bark, excited bark.
“To bind myself in my lord’s service,”
Sustained barking.
“To be his shield and guardian,”
Bark.
“To be his companion and advisor,”
Bark.
“To ride into battle with unwavering determination,”
Bark.
“For my lord’s banner shall be my banner.”
A few half-hearted whines.
“And my lord’s victory my victory.”
A long drawn out whine.
“Then I, Viscount Robert Brown, Lord of Earth, The Brown Emperor, The Mud Magician, anoint you Sir George, knight of the first rank. May you serve your master well and uphold all oaths sworn here today.”
Reaching out with his mud arm, Bob gently tapped the stick on one side of the dog’s shoulder and then on the other. George gazed longingly at the stick throughout the ceremony. When Bob stretched it out for George to take, he chomped happily down and puttered off to gnaw on the thing.
> Skill: Retinue - Viscount (Service)
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> Appoint sentients to your retinue. They will be granted a title and gain all corresponding benefits. Members of your retinue must swear an oath of fealty.
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> Limit:
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> * One Knight
Bob didn't know why he'd held off on anointing George as his knight. It's not like he'd had anyone else in mind. It was just... Well he hadn't chosen to become a viscount and he'd sort of hoped he might be able to give it all up at some point and go back to being ordinary Bob. But those days were long past. Ordinary Bob had abandoned George last night. Ordinary Bob was curled up somewhere in the fetal position, crying himself to sleep. Ordinary Bob was dead. This Bob. This new Bob, he'd steeled himself. He'd chosen. Ping!
> Achievement: A Knight of One's Own
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> So you found someone willing to follow you. It would be a little bit more impressive if it wasn't your dog.
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> Acquire your first knight retainer
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> Effect: A minor bonus to will
Good the ritual had succeeded. Bob had been little worried the system wouldn’t acknowledge the dog’s barking repetition as a binding oath. But Bob guessed the dog’s whole-hearted agreement must have shone through despite linguistical limitations.
Now what did this knight title do? “George,” the dog looked up but didn’t come over. “My apologies. Sir George.” The dog grinned excitedly and trotted up, tail wagging.
“Sir George, my noble and honored knight, you wouldn’t mind telling me what the knight title does would you?” Woof!
“That’s about what I thought.” Bob reckoned he wasn’t about to get any more details.
It didn't really matter. They both knew what came next. The price of strength is paid in blood. There was no point getting squeamish about it. No running from the fact of the matter. The system made these things very clear. The world was a zero-sum game. You kill someone and you get stronger. Someone kills you and they get stronger. And Bob was going to have kill a whole lot of someones.
"Yes," Bob muttered to himself, as the two of them stalked out on the plains, "the time has come. The hour of the mud magician and the golden knight."