“We can’t duel.” Rob shrugged. “There’s no referee.”

  Yes. That’s right, Robbie boy. Weasel your way out with FACTS and LOGIC.

  “Then we shall rectify that issue,” the Honorable declared. With a snap of his hand, a butler materialized behind the table.

  The butler bowed deeply, producing a pristine white glove from his coat pocket and slapping it against his palm with a sharp snap. “I shall serve as your referee.”

  Rob and Blorbo sighed in unison.

  The Honorable grinned. "Splendid! Now, let us begin before anyone else tries to employ reason."

  However, the table hadn’t so much moved an inch.

  The two unfortunate souls tasked with moving The Imperial Centipede were quickly learning that some objects defied mortal effort. Muscles strained, teeth grit, and desperate grunts came one after another as they pushed with all their might, yet the monstrous slab barely considered bulging.

  Rob, who was very much in favor of this duel never happening, crossed his arms. “I am terribly sorry to inform you, but if no one can push the table, we can’t duel on it.”

  SNAP.

  The Honorable's fingers cracked like a judge delivering a verdict.

  A second butler appeared, identical to the first, save for the fact that he was rolling up the sleeves of his perfectly pressed uniform. Without a word, he strode forward, placed one hand on the table’s edge, and shoved.

  It moved faster than it did before, but it still barely moved.

  “Okay…” Rob raised an eyebrow. “How are we going to duel if the Table is that hard to move?”

  “Simple.” The first butler stepped forward. “Allow me to explain the rules.”

  The first butler cleared his throat with the solemnity of a man about to dictate divine law.

  “The rules of Imperial Centipede Duelling are as follows:

  One: each participant shall take a seat at opposite ends of the tables, for only the most noble of duels may be fought upon its sacred surface.

  Two: once seated, the Imperial Centipede shall be properly assembled. The enchanted latches along its edges shall unlock, and its many segmented pieces shall glide into place, merging into a singular, uninterrupted battlefield of polished mahogany.

  Three: only once the table has fully connected shall the duel commence.

  Four: each participant shall be armed with a single, exquisitely balanced silver spoon.

  Five: at my signal, you shall attempt to slide said spoon across the table with enough force to make it reach your opponent's side.

  Six: if your spoon fails to reach your opponent, you shall immediately lose. If your spoon actually reaches your opponent and they fail to catch it, you win the round. If both spoons reach their opponent, whoever catches it first wins the round.

  Seven: the game ends when one wins three round.”

  Rob stared. “This is just an overcomplicated game of table shuffleboard.”

  And it is NAMED Imperial Centipede Duelling! Guy literally invented the game himself.

  Blorbo, who had been listening with rapt attention (mostly because he had no choice), pondered. Huh. For a game that involves throwing spoons at each other, this is actually kinda well-balanced. You want to throw the spoon lightly so it reaches your opponent just a little later, giving you the best chance to catch theirs first. But if you throw it too lightly, you lose on the spot. So you gotta finesse it. And then there’s the table surface. Even though it all merges into one big battlefield, the texture and finish of each segment might be slightly different.

  He prayed Rob had thought about all that.

  The Honorable scoffed. “Do not compare Imperial Centipede Duelling to mere tavern games. This is a contest of precision, patience, and grace.”

  Rob glanced at the table, then back at the butler. “And if we refuse to play?”

  The butler bowed slightly. “Then the duel shall be decided by The Ultimate Alternative.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Rob frowned. “... Which is?”

  The Honorable smirked.

  “A game of Gentleman's Chess.”

  The hallway, consisting of the two servants and the other butler, gasped. A distant thunderclap rumbled. There was no visible storm.

  “... I choose the Table Duel,” Rob said. He didn’t know how to play chess, nor was he a gentleman. He was more like a strongman.

  With one final, earth-shaking grunt, the butlers and servants managed to shove The Imperial Centipede into the center of the room. The ancient mahogany groaned like an elder god turning in its slumber. The two unfortunate souls who had been tasked with moving it collapsed to their knees, gasping for breath. One of them whispered something about early retirement.

  Rob grabbed Blorbo by the scruff of his collar and dragged him over. "Alright, come on. Let’s get this over with."

  As they approached, the difference between The Imperial Centipede and Blorbo’s sad excuse for a table became palpable. It was like comparing a war elephant to a particularly tired donkey. The Centipede was regal, imposing, and utterly unyielding, while Blorbo’s table—though noble through disguised magic—looked like a flimsy child’s toy by comparison.

  And then there was the height.

  Blorbo stared up at the towering, throne-like chair placed at his end. Then he looked at Rob, who was already settling into his seat without issue. Then he looked back at the butlers.

  One of them coughed politely before producing, with great ceremony, four small, exquisitely carved Imperial Stools. They were perfectly varnished, and each leg boasted a design of swirling vines and tiny, gold-inlaid crests.

  Rob squinted. “You’re telling me this table comes with customized booster seats?”

  “Imperial booster seats,” one butler corrected.

  Rob scowled but put Blorbo onto the stools anyway. Their surfaces now were on even ground.

  The butler overseeing the duel clapped his hands. "Now, the assembly shall begin."

  With a sizzling sound, the enchanted latches on the edges of the two tables clicked open. The segmented pieces of the Imperial Centipede began to shift. Blorbo jerked forward as if being devoured, its edges pulled into place as the monstrous slab absorbed it into its own surface. His edges trembled, then stretched, then melted—no, dissolved—like a drop of ink vanishing into an endless sea of mahogany. The feeling was weird.

  Blorbo could not believe they really made enchanted latches.

  Rob was about to say something, but the butlers shushed him. A servant shoved a silver spoon to his hand.

  The Honorable steepled his fingers. “Let the duel commence.” His other hand had already held a silver spoon.