Bob looked up at the wall. The wall buzzed down at him ominously. They'd got the message alright. Violence is the universal language.

Twenty beetles sprung away from their positions and droned down on Bob. What? The stupid beetles could fly. Why didn't I think of that? Yeah, Bob, why didn't you, most beetles can fly, it's a pretty normal thing to consider. Stupidity is an infection. Let it into one corner of your plan and the next moment you know, your plan is dying on the ground at your feet.

Bob was confronted with a hail of badger-sized beetles, all traveling towards him at viscous speeds, point-first. The animals, with a discipline that was disturbingly human, had targeted his general area and not just his person, meaning he had no easy escape paths and that George was also in danger. Still this wasn't Bob's first fight. And things had a tendency to go pear-shaped. At a certain point, you just learned to roll with the punches.

Bob stepped in front of the dog, whipping off Harry and formulating his spell. Half a second later he was battering away the incoming enemies with a giant mud paddle. Ping pong anyone?

It had been a gamble, but he'd guessed right. The beetles were surprisingly light for their size. They had to be if they'd retained flight at their size. His attack wasn't damaging, but pushed them far enough off course that George and he avoided getting pin-cushioned. One unfortunate beetle landed hard, horn first in the mud and stuck there, danglingly off its own horn, its six legs kicking backwards and forwards as it tried to loosen itself.

The remaining beetles ignored their unfortunate companion and formed up in an encircling manoeuvre. Their initial horn volley had been calculated to ensure beetles ended up on all sides of them. Bob groaned to himself when he noticed the strategy. They'd had a contingency plan? Wish I'd had one of those.

In short order, Bob and George were completely surrounded, entrapped in a prison of pointed spears. And that's when the beetles began a slow, coordinated march forward. Left, right, left, right, each step closing the net around them a little tighter. The black horns had a wicked gleam to them that Bob had no desire to experience in his own person.

Was Bob worried? No, yes, a little. It was only sensible to be a little worried. The beetles had demonstrated strategic and tactical sophistication. War was their plaything. And they plainly knew what they were doing. But Bob here was the mud magician. He had his own plans cooking. He had one or two tricks up his sleeve yet. Or he ought to have, since he was the one who'd come knocking on these castle gates.

"Don't worry George. I'll protect you. Uncle Bob's on the case."

George ignored Bob.

"George, it's at times like this when I could use an encouraging bark. You know, 'I believe in you Bob' or 'you got this Bob.' George!"

Bob looked down to see the dog suck in a great breath of air and expel out a crimson triangle of flame. The dog patiently turned his head from left to right, lingering half-second on each beetle foe, as the fiery beam swept across the bottom half of their enemy's encirclement. Bob gulped. That's right Bob. George is stronger than you. You should focus on yourself Bob. Good advice.

Taking advantage of the lightning decimation of their rear assailants, Bob backpedalled, hoping he could group up the remaining enemies and disrupt their coordination. It didn't work. The beetles were unfazed. They came stoically forward, step by step, masterfully maintaining their crescent formation and always pivoting smoothly to keep Bob in centre.

Bob wasn't sure if he was moved or horrified. If he'd just seen half his company massacred and their burnt-out husk corpses on the ground in front of him, he certainly wouldn't have kept his cool. Most likely he'd have broken at once and kept running until his legs failed him. But these beetles, did they have no fear? War is the death of the individual.

Seeing his attempts to outmanoeuvre them were pointless, he stopped retreating and started thinking about his offensive options. Sitting in his camp chair, fresh from mutilating a spider from the inside out, Bob had lazily reasoned he'd just choke the buggers. But now he was seeing the beetles up close, he'd couldn't work out where the beetles' mouths was, or even whether they had mouths. There were mandibles sure, and presumably the mouth was in that general area, but the beetles didn't seem to use it to breathe and there were no nose holes either. Where was he supposed to shove Harry through to do maximum damage?

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

The beetles were almost on top of Bob now. He figured he'd have to try something. What about a mud spear, the mudpoon's less sophisticated cousin. Bob reformed Harry into a pointed stick, double and triple hardening the spearhead. Just in time too, because one beetle, seeing itself in range, hopped forward stabbing at Bob with its horn.

Bob repositioned Harry into the beetle's line of approach. Crack. Harry's mud point shattered against the beetle's hard shell. The beetle kept coming, though the impact had knocked off its aim and the horn-point only grazed Bob's left arm. Bob scrambled back, barely avoiding a follow up swipe from the beetle. But the beetle didn't chase, instead waiting for its companions to catch up and falling back into lock-step.

Bob gave Harry a disappointed look. It wasn't like it was Harry's fault though. Mud isn't exactly steel. Death from inside was off the table. Death from outside was off the table. What the hell's left on the table? I'm starting to reevaluate my combat effectiveness here. We can never quite achieve as much as we think we can.

George was puttering around, behind Bob, collecting up all of the beetle bodies. Wow, Bob wondered how that looked to their comrade beetles. Probably like George was taking the time, mid battle, to shamelessly desecrate their dead.

"George, I could use an assist."

George turned his head back, saw Bob, saw the beetles, gave a doggy frown and got back to work. The message was clear: what's the problem? Surely his master Bob could handle a bunch of weakling beetles.

"I never should have made you my knight," Bob muttered to himself, as he dug his feet into the ground and prepared to make a stand.

Since when did pet owners have to earn the respect of their pets? It's supposed to be the over way around. So Bob had to prove himself worthy did he? Why couldn't the dog just save him when he asked... There were nine beetles (not counting the one who remained flagpoled in the mud). They were advancing steadily, keeping a crescent moon formation, horns out.

Come on, Bob, think. Bob could probably, probably mind, sink them all into an expanded mudfall. It would be a close thing. He'd have to displace a huge amount of mud to cover that area. He couldn't multicast so he'd just have to sink the whole zone. That move would crater his mana reserves, making him combat-ineffective for at least the next five to ten minutes. If reinforcements arrived from the settlement, he'd be toast. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't confident he could keep so many beetles trapped simultaneously. If they coordinated an escape attempt, he wouldn't be able to stop them. Mudfall was the attack of the ambush predator. It was practically worthless on a large-scale battlefield.

Now that didn't leave Bob many options. He could run, tail between his legs and hide behind the alpha dog: George Brown, the golden retriever. George would have no trouble carbonizing the remaining beetles. But the system didn't work through hugs and pats on the head. You didn't get a gold sticker for participating. You got a level-up for killing monsters in cold blood with your own hands. Self-responsibility and all. And he didn't think he could survive the dog's smug contempt.

"Bob I've asked you before and I'll ask you again. Put on that thinking cap of yours and come up with a working idea here."

"Does that ever work? Are problems ever actually solved by management just shouting at employees, 'why don't you think of something?'"

"Bob I know you like complaining and that you're rather good at it, but don't you think it might be time to do a little problem solving."

Bob backed away and the beetles chased patiently after. Bob had stored a surprise or two in George's backpack, but trying to get George to spit out the right object in a combat situation was laughably optimistic. And George would probably consider that cheating anyway.

What did Bob have on his person? A backpack, a water bottle, some rope, his discarded trainers and socks, the system knife. Yes he still had the system knife. After the fight with the crocodile he'd decided it was worth keeping the object on his person (even if he hated using it).

He took it out now and clutched it in his left hand. His non-dominant left hand. The beetle's exoskeleton was tough, but the system blade was designed for killing. The steel-forged weapon would probably punch right through. Now the little buggers were small. Their horns were only about a foot long. It was conceivable that Bob with his longer wingspan might be able to attack while staying outside of the range of their horns. And if there were just one, he might have tried that. But there were nine and they knew how to fight as a team. Bob's right and left feet were probably less coordinated.

Would George really let him die here? Maybe he just had to make a convincing enough show of danger and the dog would swoop in and save him. Dammit Bob. That's not what this is about is it. When are you going to snap out of your survival mindset? It's meaningless if George has to save you. Commit yourself to this fight. Commit yourself to victory or death.

Bob swallowed and faced off against the marching beetle wall. Man is weak and flimsy. How does he overcome his enemies? Not through strength. But by the cunning use of tools. Bob needed to think of synergy. He didn't just have a knife or his mud abilities. He had his knife and his mud abilities. So Harry, let's put my mud arm to good use.

He tossed the dagger from his left hand, the steel blade spinning in the air, you know as he projected an air of calm professionalism. I'm cool and ready, not arrogant, just confident enough to want to wrap things up. His mud cloak lashed forward and deftly caught the blade in an underhand grip, phasing liquid and then resolidifying around the cloak. Man I've always wanted to pull that off. Who'd guessed that today was the day Bob Brown decided to take up close combat.