I've begun to think there aren't any reasonable people in the world. It's a nice idea like common sense and rational decision-making. But they're all dreams, ideals created by a hopeful soul. They exist only in stories, like unicorns and dragons. I tell you, you could spend your whole life looking for a reasonable person and never find one.

Bob wasn't reasonable. The tank-beetle wasn't reasonable. George wasn't reasonable. The system wasn't reasonable. And this godforsaken situation was just about as far from reasonable as you could get.

If only my mother could see me now... Bob mused, as he dodged horn attack after horn attack while the crowd of beetles booed and heckled. Those level increases must really have bumped up his dexterity, because pre-system Bob would have been pancaked long ago.

He leaped, he dived, he pirroethed, he sidestepped, he back-stepped, he foxtrotted, he waltzed. Something about the war music really brought out the dance in him. The crowd was bloody biased. He was putting on a show here. They should be throwing flowers at his feet.

They weren't and, frankly speaking, the tank-beetle was just playing with him. The animal was taking the opportunity to show off its quite superior fencing abilities. You'd think it would be more difficult to manipulate a point three-foot away from your head, but the tank-beetle made it look easy.

It wove complicated figures around Bob, little pictures of the sword, even finding the time to add dramatic flourishes. It was beautiful, mesmerizing sword-work. And the beetle knew full well the value of its craft. Sometimes it would pause for a moment after a particularly impressive sequence, giving the gallery just enough time to appreciate the effect.

Wouldn't it be marvelous to see two of these creatures fight each other, Bob thought to himself as he ducked a particularly vicious side-swipe. That would be the pinnacle of sword-craft. That would be... art. Yes, that was the word: Art!

Bob really hadn't given these beetles enough credits. Nobody could mistake the sword master's movements for mere instinctual wavings of the horn. It practiced a sword style; there was a coherence to the strokes, an animating aesthetic to the motions. In another life, Bob would have thrown himself at the master's feet and begged to be made a disciple. In real life, he just did his best not to get beheaded.

The more Bob saw, the more he realized that the duel was not a one-off for the creatures. The tank-beetle was too practiced, the spectators too enthused, the circle too pristinely formed. The animals must have a long-standing custom of dueling each other. I christen you: giant horned dueling beetles, the Gladiatus Rhinocerix. It was the only way to explain why the master had instantly understood and accepted Bob's challenge. As well as the single-gesture instruction required to quell and form up the citizenry of a sacked city.

A duel, Bob mused, a real duel, the pinnacle of combat tropes, the simplest and most compelling of situations. How had Bob described it: 'a tradition sacred among warriors.' That was a good line. He wondered where he'd borrowed that from. Bob was fighting a duel. The whole thing was starting to make him feel a shade guilty. When the beetle's leader had signaled for a duel, the beetles had put aside all bitterness and anger to obey the mandates of their sacred tradition. Bob, on the other hand, had gone into the duel with every intention of cheating at the first opportunity. Which of them was the civilized one here?

And yet now Bob was growing remorseful. Art has a power to move men's souls. Just look at the tank-beetle's deliberate footwork, that shuffling sidestep, the subtle lunge, its passe avant, its passe arriere. What heart could strip the world of these beautiful things? Was there no peaceful resolution to their conflict? No way they could leave this place as bosom companions and not bitter enemies. He would not kill such a noble animal.

Imagine for a moment, yes suspend your disbelief, if Bob could somehow tame the animal, or no, that was an offensive phrase towards a creature of intelligence, befriend the animal, and ride into battle on its back: Bob and the beetle. Bob the beetle rider. It had a ring to it. The legends they could make.

Slash, his step back had been delayed a fraction of a second by idle fantasies, and the beetle horn scarred a line across his chest. The flash of pain helped Bob remember that the monster in front of him was trying to kill him.

Still, a man's only as strong as his dreams. Bob gritted his teeth. The beetles were a strict martial community. He'd seen them deny shelter to fugitive beetles. Trying to back out of a duel would be interpreted as a sign of weakness and disrespect. The master would execute him on the spot. No, his only chance was to win the duel fair and square, spare the life of the beetle and then take the beetle on as his vassal. Fat chance that was.

Not only was Bob highly pessimistic he could win the duel on his lonesome, he was highly pessimistic that he could win the duel by cheating. George's fire breath was of limited range and required a cast time. How on earth would George manage to land an attack on this beetle sword-sage, with its devastating, pinpoint strikes at distance? Not to mention, the second George made an aggressive move, the swarm of (rightfully) angry spectators would trample them both down. That left some kind of trap, but traps are all preparations and understatement. You can't prepare a stage, while a monster-truck is beating down on you.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Bob's move-set was limited at best. He was the ambush predator. A straight-up duel was a job for honorable knights, not the delinquent, hoody-wearing mud magician. Mudfall was out of the question. He doubted all his mana would be enough to bury this monstrosity, and thinking he could keep it buried was nothing short of delusional.

At the same time, Harry and the horn were lying abandoned near the bunker ruins. Bob had debated trying to pick the mud dart up during his monologue, but he'd been afraid any kind of aggressive move might trigger an instant breakdown in negotiations. After all, brandishing the horn of a beetle he'd killed at another beetle, potentially a relation or friend of the first beetle, was unlikely to earn him any good will.

He figured he'd just retrieve it when hostilities open. He'd figured badly. The beetle's first foray had immediately pushed him well away from the centre of the circle, far out of the bunker's orbit. That trend had continued and he was slowly being backed up toward the edge of the ring, at which point, no doubt, he'd find himself with no room to maneuver and a beetle horn to the gut.

Bob would have to try something. Time to see just how far Bob had come. You can't score if you're always playing defense. Bob was a mage. He was a wielder of the arcane forces, of the element of wetted earth, the mud wizard. Plan number one: Bob would throw off the beetle's timing by disrupting his footwork and then rush for the mud-dart. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when fighting spearmen, close the distance beyond the weapon's effective range? A theoretically perfect plan. The second best kind of perfection.

Ok, here goes nothing. Bob extended his awareness into the mud around his feet. He spun left to avoid a stab, and then right to avoid the follow up, and then left again. Dizzy work this. Focus. Focus. He felt around for the mud under the beetle's feet; there, he had it. Concentrate Bob. Just cooking up some magic here (i.e. conceiving in detail exactly what the mud had to do). Come on, come on. A little bit more. Splat!

Bob was clattered down into the ground as he took the side of the horn to his stomach. He was winded, nauseous, the sky was full of beautiful stars, look how pretty they are. Thankfully he still managed to roll away from a series of pointed stabs, scramble to his feet and back away before the beetle could finish him off.

Bob had used magic loads of time. He was a mage. He'd trained his mind to quickly and accurately construct magical directives. This was, however, the first time he'd attempted to do so while ducking and diving around for his life. It was a tad more difficult than he'd imagined. No, it was bloody damn impossible. To make matters worse, the beetle seemed to know it was fighting a mage. That's why it had shifted tactics to the faster, but non-lethal horn bash, when it saw Bob trying to cast a spell.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. My powers are absolute horseshit." Bob spat out onto the ground. The spit came out red and sticky. Nothing like a little bit of internal bleeding.

"Ok, Bob, magic is off the table. What other options do you have?"

"Zero. I have zero options. I'm a magician. My whole power set is magic."

"Ah, rather unfortunate."

"You can say that again. "

"Bob."

"What?"

"I have an idea, but I don't think you're going to like it."

"Then I don't want to hear it."

"But Bob..."

"Fine, fine, tell me your idea."

"..."

"I don't like it."

"I said you weren't going to like it."

"It's an awful idea. How can you call that a plan? Let me repeat back your words to you: 'the beetle won't be able to hurt you if you are clinging onto the beetle's horn.' Do you hear yourself?That's bat-crazy."

"No, it's smart. Think about it."

"I have. It's bat-crazy."

"Think about it properly. It's genius. The area's all mud right? That means the beetle won't be able to hurt you by smashing you into the ground. You can just cushion any impacts with your mud magic. And you'll be stationary, so you'll actually be able to cast spells."

"What if he throws me off?"

"Well then you'll be back where you started. No harm done. And don't you have average strength? Look how smooth a touch of dexterity made you. Word of advice: try to get as close as to the beetle head as you can. That'll give it less leverage."

"Thank you Bob. Great advice. I can't believe we are actually going to do this."

"I told you it was a great idea."

"I hate you Bob."

"I love you too Bob."

Well no point faffing around. Bob was at the far edge of the circle and it wasn't like he had a better plan. He crouched down, hand at the ready, keeping both eyes on the tank-beetle as it stepped cautiously towards him. There. A lighting strike from the beetle aimed straight for the neck. Bob flicked his head to the side, twisted his body around and grabbed the horn with his good, left hand. He flipped himself up, hooking both legs around the horn.

"Did you see that? That was some kung-fu shit. I've really got to believe in myself a bit more. Ok Bob, here I am. What's next? What do I do now?"

"___"

"What? Why are you looking at me? This was your plan wasn't it."

"Yeah and it worked".

"Well what's the follow-up?"

"What follow up?"

Bob groaned to himself.

"I knew it. I knew I didn't like the plan. You've left me stranded, clinging for dear life on the horn of a giant beetle."

"I don't know, cast some magic."

"You bloody..."

The beetle wasn't happy. The animal's displeasure expressed itself in some very choice attempts to throw Bob away from the horn. Bob hugged the firm stick as hard as could. The world was spinning around him. Reach out to the mud Bob. Yeah, no; whatever his internal counselors liked to imagine, this was not stationary. The prospect of raining down spells on the monster sitting securely on its horn was laughable. Only a complete idiot could have come up with that plan. No. Responsibility has to lie with the idiot who agreed to it.

The beetle threw its head up; Bob's grip loosened. He remembered he only had one good hand. And then the beetle slashed the horn down and to the side. Bob's grip slipped away. He was flying. He was flying through the air. He was free. Smack! Groan. What are the chances...