Yuto Akiyama's night watch was going about as well as a solo queue in World Warfare 4 with a team of AFK noobs. His dented helmet slipped over his eyes, his spear felt like it weighed a ton, and the Verdant Scar's chilly wind was doing unspeakable things to his already chafed nether regions. He stood at the camp's perimeter, staring into the forest where shadows danced like hackers in a laggy lobby, their eyes glinting with a hunger that screamed "you're about to get ganked." The green pulse from moments ago still lingered in his memory, a sickly glow that had his gamer brain chanting, Magic. Freaking OP magic. And now, that growl—low, guttural, like a raid boss warming up for a wipe.
"Yo, Gav? Sarge? Anyone wanna swap shifts?" Yuto whispered, his voice cracking like a preteen in a voice chat. No answer, just the distant snores of Braxium's army, sprawled across a muddy rise in a patchwork of sagging tents. The campfires cast flickering shadows, painting the Verdant Scar in hues of orange and despair. Craters pocked the valley below, their edges glowing faintly green, like toxic sludge in a sci-fi shooter. The air carried a metallic tang, mixed with the sour reek of unwashed soldiers and the faint, spicy scent of the camp's mystery stew. Bet it's laced with mana or some pay-to-win herb, Yuto thought, clutching his spear tighter.
The growl came again, closer, and Yuto's meme-lord brain kicked into overdrive: When you're level 1 and the game spawns a world boss. He squinted into the dark, his heart jackhammering. The shadows resolved into shapes—sleek, canine, with glowing yellow eyes and teeth that gleamed like rare loot. Wolves? Hellhounds? Bet they've got a poison debuff. There were at least six, slinking toward the camp's edge, their movements eerily coordinated, like a pro guild on comms.
"Okay, Yuto, don't blue-screen," he muttered, backing up until his boot squelched in a puddle. "Just sound the alarm. Easy. Like hitting F to report a cheater." He fumbled for the horn at his belt—a dented brass thing Granite-Face had tossed him with a grunt—only to drop it in the mud. "Crap! RNGesus, why you gotta do me like this?" He scrambled to grab it, his spear clattering to the ground, when a voice cut through the dark.
"Oi, Mud Boy! You plannin' to fight those beasts with your face in the dirt?" The voice was dry, raspy, like it had smoked a pack of medieval cigars. Yuto's head snapped up to see a lanky figure leaning against a nearby tent, a longbow slung over his shoulder. The man was older, maybe forty, with a face like weathered leather and eyes that glinted with cynical amusement. His armor was patched leather, adorned with runes that glowed faintly blue, and a scruffy beard framed a smirk that screamed "I've seen it all, and it's all stupid."
"Uh, hi? New friend? Please don't let me die," Yuto blurted, snatching the horn. The man—Torren, Yuto later learned—snorted, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. "Blow that horn, kid, or we're all wolf chow. And try not to piss yourself. It's bad for morale."
Yuto jammed the horn to his lips, puffing out a sad, wheezy toot that sounded more like a dying goose than a call to arms. Torren rolled his eyes. "Gods, you're hopeless. Gimme that." He snatched the horn and let out a sharp, piercing blast that jolted the camp awake. Soldiers stumbled from their tents, cursing and grabbing weapons, as Granite-Face's roar echoed: "To arms, you lazy bastards!"
The wolves—or whatever they were—didn't wait. They surged forward, their growls rising to snarls that vibrated in Yuto's chest. Torren loosed an arrow, the shaft glowing blue as it thudded into a beast's flank, dropping it with a yelp. "Dominion-tainted," he muttered, nocking another. "Bloody sorcery's twistin' the wildlife. Stay behind me, Mud Boy, unless you wanna be a chew toy."
"Dominion? Sorcery? Bro, I need a lore dump!" Yuto yelped, grabbing his spear and holding it like a scared kid with a stick. His gamer brain was screaming analyze the meta, but all he could process was big teeth, bad news. The wolves spread out, flanking the camp's edge, their eyes locked on the scrambling soldiers. Okay, they're smart. Like, AI-bot smart. We need a choke point or an AOE nuke.
Before he could strategize, a new voice rang out—high-pitched, dramatic, and way too confident. "Fear not, peasants! Your salvation has arrived!" Yuto turned to see a woman strutting—strutting—toward the chaos, her hips swaying like she was on a catwalk instead of a battlefield. She was maybe twenty, with a cascade of blonde hair that somehow stayed pristine despite the mud, and a figure that could've launched a thousand Twitch subs. Her outfit was… impractical: a tight, low-cut tunic that barely contained her "assets," a skirt that defied gravity, and a capelet embroidered with stars that screamed "I'm a mage, ask me how!" A wooden staff, topped with a glowing crystal, wobbled in her hand like she'd just picked it up at a Renaissance fair.
"Who's that?" Yuto muttered, his meme-lord brain already firing: When you roll a charisma build but dump-stat everything else. Torren groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Lyssa, self-proclaimed battlemage. More trouble than she's worth. Watch, she'll botch this worse than you botched that horn."
Lyssa raised her staff, striking a pose that showed off way too much cleavage for a warzone. "By the power of Saint Valthar's sacred flames, I, Lyssa Starweaver, shall smite these foul beasts!" Her crystal glowed, sparks crackling—then fizzled out with a sad pop. The wolves didn't even flinch, but Yuto's brain supplied a meme: When you cast a level 1 spell but the boss has 99% magic resist.
"Uh, nice try, Sparkle Tits," Yuto called, unable to resist. "Maybe try rebooting your wand?" Lyssa's face flushed, her eyes narrowing. "How dare you, you muddy peasant! My magic is legendary! I just… need to warm up!" She thrust her staff again, muttering something about "mana channels," and a weak fireball sputtered out, singeing a wolf's tail. The beast yelped, more annoyed than hurt, and charged her.
"Great, now she's aggroed it," Torren muttered, loosing another arrow. Yuto's gamer instincts kicked in, scanning the terrain. The camp's perimeter was too open, but a nearby trench—used for latrines, judging by the smell—could funnel the wolves into a killzone. Nasty, but effective. Like camping a spawn point. "Torren, Lyssa, follow me!" he shouted, sprinting toward the trench, his spear dragging.
"Follow you? A filthy conscript?" Lyssa scoffed, but a wolf's snap at her heels sent her stumbling after him, her capelet flapping. Torren followed, muttering about "bloody idiots." Yuto slid into the trench, gagging at the stench. "Okay, we hold here. They come single-file, we pick 'em off. Like a Halo choke point."
"You're mad!" Lyssa shrieked, nearly tripping over her skirt. "This is a latrine! My robes are silk, you cretin!"
"Yeah, and your robes are giving 'OnlyFans cosplay' vibes," Yuto shot back, grinning despite the panic. "Focus, Aqua 2.0, or we're dog food." Lyssa sputtered, but Torren snorted, his arrow nocking. "Kid's got a mouth. Hope his brain's as sharp."
The wolves reached the trench, their bulk forcing them to squeeze through one at a time. Torren's arrows dropped the first, its body clogging the path. Yuto jabbed his spear, missing spectacularly but distracting the next wolf long enough for Lyssa to lob another fireball—this one actually hit, scorching the beast's flank. "Ha! Behold my power!" she crowed, striking another pose that nearly popped her tunic.
"Chill, Bayonetta, it's still alive!" Yuto yelped, dodging a swipe. Granite-Face and a dozen soldiers arrived, spears and swords flashing, turning the trench into a meat grinder. The wolves fell, their glowing eyes dimming, but Yuto noticed something odd: their blood shimmered green, pooling in the mud like toxic sludge. Dominion sorcery, huh? Bet it's some endgame plot twist.
The last wolf collapsed, and the soldiers cheered, though their faces were grim. Granite-Face stomped over, blood-streaked but alive. "Mud Boy, that trench was your idea?" Yuto nodded, bracing for a whip. Instead, the sergeant grunted. "Not bad. Don't let it go to your head." He turned to Lyssa, who was preening like she'd soloed the fight. "And you, mage, stop flashing your tits and learn a real spell."
Lyssa gasped, clutching her chest. "How dare you! I'm a battlemage! My charms are part of my magic!" Yuto couldn't resist: "Yeah, those charms are definitely casting Confusion on the whole camp." The soldiers roared with laughter, and Lyssa's face turned beet red, her staff sparking uselessly.
Torren clapped Yuto's shoulder, his smirk almost approving. "You're a weird one, Oracle of Mud. Keep that up, you might not die tomorrow." Yuto grinned, his ego soaring despite the stench clinging to his tunic. Two fights, two wins. I'm basically carrying this team.
The camp settled into uneasy rest, but Yuto's "Oracle of Mud" rep spread like a viral meme. By morning, soldiers whispered about his "ditch trick" and "trench strat," some with awe, others with envy. Camp life painted a vivid picture of Braxium's war machine: cooks ladled stew spiced with glowing herbs, their pots etched with runes to "ward off rot." Soldiers carved prayers into their weapons, invoking Saint Valthar or lesser gods like Thalra, patron of archers. A grizzled captain, his cloak bearing House Valthar's winged serpent, barked orders, his voice carrying the weight of a noble-born officer. The Verdant Scar loomed outside, its craters pulsing green, a reminder of the Dominion's sorcery scarring the land.
Yuto's new squadmates—Gav, Redbeard, Torren, and Lyssa—formed a chaotic crew. Gav's weasel-faced jabs kept Yuto sharp, Redbeard's lewd stories (like one about a "three-goat wager" in a tavern) kept him laughing, and Torren's dry quips kept him grounded. Lyssa, though, was a walking meme. She bragged about her "arcane lineage," but her spells fizzled more than they fired, and her outfit drew constant stares—and Yuto's jabs. "Yo, Lyssa, your skirt's so short it's got its own aggro radius," he teased, dodging her indignant staff swing.
But friction brewed. A burly soldier, Karl, glared at Yuto during rations, muttering about "upstart conscripts" stealing glory. "Oracle of Mud? More like King of Shit," he sneered, earning laughs from his cronies. Yuto shrugged it off, but Torren warned him later: "Watch Karl. He's got a mean streak and a long memory. Glory's a currency here, and you're hoarding it."
Yuto's gamer brain was too busy to care. The wolves' green blood nagged at him, a puzzle piece in Braxium's lore. He cornered Lyssa, who was polishing her staff with exaggerated care. "Yo, Sparkle Tits, what's with the green glow? Dominion sorcery—spill the tea."
Lyssa huffed, tossing her hair. "It's Lyssa Starweaver, you cretin. And yes, the Dominion taints beasts with their foul magic. It's… uh, complicated arcane stuff you wouldn't understand." Her vagueness screamed wiki stub, but Yuto caught a flicker of worry in her eyes. Bet she knows more than she's letting on. Gotta grind her dialogue tree later.
Granite-Face assigned Yuto to a scouting patrol, a "reward" for his trench strat. "Don't cock it up, Mud Boy," he growled, tossing him a rusty dagger to pair with his spear. Yuto groaned, his body aching from yesterday's chaos. "Sarge, I'm a glass cannon, not a rogue! Can I get a ranged slot?" No dice—Granite-Face was already gone.
The patrol was a slog through the Verdant Scar's northern edge, where the forest thickened into a tangle of gnarled trees and glowing vines that pulsed like server cables. Torren led, his bow ready, while Gav grumbled about missing breakfast, Redbeard muttered prayers, and Lyssa tripped over roots, her skirt riding up to comical levels. "Lyssa, your outfit's pulling more aggro than my strats," Yuto quipped, dodging her glare. "Focus, Mud Boy!" she snapped, her staff sparking. Torren chuckled. "Kid's got a point. You're a walking distraction."
The forest grew eerier, the air heavy with a hum Yuto couldn't place—magic, maybe, or something worse. They reached a clearing, where a stone obelisk stood, etched with runes that glowed green. The ground around it was scorched, littered with bones—animal and… not. "Dominion shrine," Torren muttered, his voice low. "They use 'em to channel their sorcery. Bad news."
Lyssa's eyes widened, her bravado faltering. "We should leave. Now." Yuto's gamer brain tingled. World event trigger? Bet it's tied to the wolves. He stepped closer, squinting at the runes, when the hum spiked, a green pulse washing over the clearing. The ground trembled, and cracks split the earth, revealing glowing eyes—dozens, staring up from the dark.
"Ambush!" Torren yelled, nocking an arrow. Shapes erupted from the cracks—not wolves, but humanoid, their skin gray and eyes green, wielding jagged blades. Ghouls? Minions? Freaking trash mobs! Yuto's spear shook, his meme-lord brain offering one last quip: When you trigger a cutscene but forgot to save.