Bob enjoyed a well earned break after his second traumatic encounter with a giant spider. This was almost certainly going to leave some fearful mental scarring. Bob was worried he might be turned off moustaches indefinitely which would be a real tragedy for the facial hair community, but it's so hard to break away from ingrained associations.

Man and dog sat down, had some lunch, watched the clouds, almost nodded off, remembered this was a serious business, drank some system-bought coffee (bloody shipping costs) and decided what to do next.

Bob was feeling antsy. That long and epic duel with a level seven Spinnenhüpfer had only netted him thirty or so percent to his next level. It just didn't feel worth it. At this rate, he'd have to repeat more than ten of these battles to hit level ten and that was assuming there was no experience dilution at the higher levels. There was almost certainly experience dilution at higher levels. Realistically it'd be more like twenty or thirty.

Who had the time or will for any of that? Truth be told. Bob was spoiled. He'd seen himself jump from level 1 to level 5 in a single night. Hell in a single attack. People like to say slow and steady wins the race and all, but if you lose the will from boredom and the lack of progress and the length of the track, then you aren't going to finish at all. Bob preferred to say fast and furious. At least all the losers get to go out in balls of fire.

Anyway, nothing defined the end of a narrative arc like a grand showdown. Was Bob being influenced by the literary tradition of progressive fantasy? Maybe. You can only read so many of those books before you start to expect characters to take death-defying, end-of-the-world risks with a sort of everyday attitude, like what else was I going to do? After all, it's not particularly interesting watching your hero grind against proverbial boars in a forest until he can emerge at maximum level and slaughter everyone. Though that is obviously the lowest risk, highest success strategy.

If only Bob had been a better man. If only Bob had been a smarter man, a more sensible man, if only he had his head on his shoulders right. Yes, Bob's bosses had been pointing out his crooked neck from time immemorial. But Bob wasn't a better man. He was Bob. And you know what, in his heart of hearts, he didn't believe he was being wrong or stupid. He really believed this was the only way.

Bob slouched deeper into his chair and closed his eyes.

"Think it through Bob. Yes you're impatient. You want to get stronger right now, today. You want to feel safe and free. I understand all that. I empathize. But is this the right way? Are you going to step up to that table again and go all in? All in. You remember what it feels like. That gut-wrenching pull on your insides, that hanging tension, that dry throat and the burning emptiness. Do you really want to go back there?"

"No, no, of course not. And yes, a little; do you remember what it felt on the other side? When I could stand up and say to that room of helpless souls, you're all free now. Bob, that's the only meaningful thing I've done my whole life. Well, that and George. I don't think you can have the one without the other."

He rubbed a hand across his head and opened his eyes. "I can't go back to being helpless. I can't live that way anymore."

"Yes, you're going to be strong. We are going to be strong. But that's what we're doing here. This hunting. These ambushes. And you're making progress. Your mud manipulation is miles ahead of what it was this morning. You've learned to scout. You have actual attacks now. Hell you just ambushed and brought down a level seven monster. And without taking any damage."

"Don't bullshit me. That fight was a disaster. Both George or I could have died last fight. Should have died. The spider completely outplayed me. We survived by the skin of our teeth. But I'm not surprised and, you know, I don't even really blame myself, I think that's what combat is. That's what it means to fight to the death. There are only two ways these fights can go. Either it's a one-sided slaughter, a put-down, or it's a toss-up and you're one bad roll away from death. There's no such thing as safe combat. The risks are there either way.

"But that's not the real reason. This isn't a video game, Bob. You think no-one else is doing what we're doing. Everybody is. And I bet you, every single one of them is going to be playing it safe, choosing their targets, leveled up one step at a time. It's their life at stake. You saw in the casino, didn't you? The way Henry played. Calculated risks. We're not going to overtake anyone playing by their rules. I'm not stupid, but other folk are out there smarter than me.

"I think we've been thinking about this wrong. Strength isn't something objective, it's not some line you cross, and then you can call yourself strong. Strength is nothing more than an accident, an accident arising from the weakness of others. What's important is how strong everybody else is. That's the measure of your strength. The difference between you and the next guy."

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

If Bob fell behind the pack, he'd be torn apart. He had to run in front. Slow and steady wasn't enough. He'd be run down and trampled under in no time. Bob had to do something drastic.

"I can't believe we're doing this," he muttered to himself, but he sat up in the camp chair and addressed the dog, "George, let’s do something stupid."

George barked happily. At least the dog was on board. Of course the dog was on board. Stupid dog. If anything that just made Bob more nervous. "Guess that settles things then. System protect us."

----------------------------------------

Still just because Bob was going to do something stupid, it didn't mean he had to do it in a stupid way. On the contrary, he'd do something stupid in a smart way. Get it? No. Good. You're not supposed to. What Bob was trying to say was that he'd made some preparations. He'd had a couple ideas. He'd made some loose plans. What Bob was trying to say was: "save me from myself". Nobody volunteered.

Bob and George were prone, lying at the far extreme of the dead zone, the ring of empty land surrounding Fort Unicorn-Beetle. Bob had bought himself a pair of binoculars. He squinted through the field glasses and surveyed the enemies defenses. Those were some impressive defenses. He wished they didn't have to be quite so impressive

Just look at those walls: eight feet high, made of hardened grass, and consciously arranged into zigzagging bastions. It was a sheer triumph of overlapping fields of fire. The fort's design was startlingly renaissance. Imagine the kind of star fort Leonardo da Vinci might have drawn.

The beetles weren't resting at arms either. Their posted sentries diligently swept the dead zone, looking for the slightest threat or movement. Who on earth were they expecting to attack? Maybe these beetles went to war with each other like certain ant colonies. Perfect, so they'd all have battle experience. Bob gulped. He bit his lip. He shuffled a little. He removed the field glasses and looked over his troops, cough, troop, cough, dog. Now if he were a betting man...

Sometimes the only way to move forward is not to think too much about what's ahead. And anyway, who doesn't fancy a little bit of siege warfare after lunch?

"George, you've got all those things I made right?"

Bark.

"And you remember how to use them."

Bark.

"Good huddle."

There was no point trying to sneak across the plain when the sentries were so obviously doing their job properly. We might as well go comfortably then. "Come on George." Bob rose to his feet and started to walk towards the wall, George following behind.

A steady, echoing rhythm pulsed out from the walls. The sentry who'd spotted them was tapping its horn against the grass wall, alerting the whole fort to the presence of enemies. Great, the animals can communicate with each other. The call was quickly taken up and repeated all over the camp. In thirty seconds, the walls were swarming with horned beetles, all eyes fixed on the two intruders. They really functioned like a well-oiled machine.

Bob tried to say calm. But this wasn't just a routine nervousness. It's not like Bob was planning to stand up and give a speech in front of these beetles. He wasn't just imagining the hostility and actually they were all friendly beetles who wanted to find out what he had to say. No the beetles wanted to kill him. And well they should, because Bob had come here to massacre them all.

Bob kept walking. But George stopped, barked, looked at Bob, looked at the beetles, looked at Bob. Yes George I do see the army of angry beetles. You don't have to tell me. I have eyes. Bob stopped about twenty paces from the walls. Silence descended over the battlefield. Bob made no move to attack. Bob was hoping they'd come out and fight him in the dead zone instead.

For one thing, he didn't have a battering ram and for another he didn't have a team of strong men to swing said battering ram. Going over or through those walls was going to be a hassle. But most importantly, the dead zone was ideal terrain for the mud magician. The beetles had cut away all the grasses. Thank you very much. Foraging parties and companies of marching beetles had crisscrossed the area, stirring up the ground. Thank you kindly. And it had been raining night after night. In a word, it was like a mini-swamp outside the walls, a true mudscape. So Bob waited. The beetles waited. George got bored and started sniffing the ground.

You know I've always wanted to try this. He took one step forward, puffed out his chest, threw back his shoulders, billowed his cloak dramatically and called out his challenge: "Bring out your champion."

He'd done it. He felt like Goliath standing in front of these badger-beetled. A mountain among mortals. Let's just hope they don't have a David in there. They didn't. Or rather they didn't send anybody out. Who've guessed, the beetles didn't speak human or any real language so to their ears it just sounded like their intruder was being particularly noisy. Cultural exchange, alas, stands on the foundation of mutual intelligibility.

That was less dramatic than I thought it would be. Bob scratched his head. Harry slumped down (no point continuing the display). We need some kind of signal. Some sort of universal let's-get-to-business message.

If only he had one of those whistling arrows they used to use in China to mark the start of a battle. He'd just have to make do with what he did have. Bob crouched down and fished out a pebble. It wasn't quite a whistling arrow, but they say gifts are all about intention. Bob threw the pebble at the wall.

It was a pebble. It was a wall. What do you think happened? A dull thud, an undamaged wall and the pebble plopped down into the mud. Bob's intention, on the other hand, came across loud and clear.