The Verdant Scar's northern ridge glowed red as the Dominion rift pulsed, spawning a mage-lord atop a tainted beast—cloaked in black, staff blazing green, its mount a snarling fusion of wolf and wyrm. Yuto Akiyama's scrawny frame braced in Braxium's camp, his steel breastplate glinting, crossbow loaded, his new bomb—a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter—hanging at his belt. The camp buzzed with soldiers in crisp blue tunics, crossbows raised, but fear hung thick, the air reeking of ash, ozone, and rancid latrines. Yuto's rash burned under his tunic, his dented helm slipping. His inner thoughts churned, panic clashing with gamer grit. This mage-lord's a DLC boss, and I'm on trial for witchcraft. Valthar's priests want me roasted, but Karl's the real snake. Gotta clutch this skirmish, win the trial, or I'm perma-banned—burned or eaten.
His hygiene rage flared—soldiers coughed with sores, the stream a plague pit, no soap despite capital gear. New crossbows, no Purell? This world's a biohazard. His gunpowder obsession burned, Mara's musket sketch vivid. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—check. Forge a barrel, and I'm sniping these freaks. Gotta clear my name to build it. Granite-Face's whip cracked, his scarred face grim. "Mud Boy, stop that rift, or you're kindling!" Valthar's priests, their serpent cloaks glinting, loomed, Karl's sorcery accusation a noose tightening.
Yuto's World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, his mind channeling Thermopylae's choke points and Mongol feints. The Verdant Scar's terrain was his arena: a gully west, vine-choked, could slow grunts; a crater field north, with green pools, could bog the beast; a ridge east offered crossbow range. Funnel, snipe, boom. "Torren, ridge, snipe the mage! Gav, Redbeard, gully—block grunts! Lyssa, backline, no flubs! Crossbowmen, crater field—volley low!" Yuto barked, sprinting to the gully, crossbow loaded, breastplate clanking.
Torren scaled the ridge, his rune-etched armor glinting, crossbow twanging, bolts aiming for the mage-lord's staff, sparks flying. His mentorship cut through, voice low. "Mud Boy, I trusted a spy once—cost me a squad, northern front. Karl's kind bleed you dry. Expose him, or you're done." His green eyes held betrayal's scars, a bond forged in survival. Yuto nodded, gripping his bomb. Torren's my MVP. Redbeard's sword clashed with grunts' axes in the gully, sparks flying, his amulet pulsing, blood dripping from his gashed arm. Gav's crossbow fired, a bolt piercing a grunt's throat, his new gear steady despite his grimace. Lyssa, capelet flapping, raised her staff, her blonde hair wild. "I'll blast that fiend!" Her crystal flared blue-white, a crackling bolt shooting forth, grazing the beast's flank, ichor smoking. She tripped on a root, gasping, but grinned. "Epic, right?"
Yuto's quip was quick. "Glitter Queen, you're cracked! Don't fumble the ult!" Lyssa's blush mixed with pride, her magic sharpening despite the stumble. The beast charged the crater field, its claws rending earth, acid spit sizzling a crossbowman's armor, his scream cut short. Yuto's plan clicked—the gully slowed grunts, the ridge pinned the mage-lord, but the beast's speed was lethal. A green pool bubbled nearby, vines humming. Bog it. "Crossbowmen, aim legs—drive it to the pool!" Bolts flew, sinking into the beast's shins, ichor spraying. It roared, veering into the pool, vines snaring its claws.
The mage-lord's staff pulsed, green bolts shattering Lyssa's bolt. She fell, chanting, her crystal flaring. A barrier snapped up, blocking a bolt, saving Redbeard, who cleaved a grunt's skull. Yuto eyed the beast's maw, a glowing weak point. Hit that, drop it. He lit the bomb's fuse, sparks spitting, and sprinted, dodging a mage-lord's bolt that scorched his breastplate, heat blistering his chest. His hygiene rage spiked—no medkits, no clean water, just filth and death. A grunt's axe grazed his arm, blood welling. He hurled the bomb, the pot arcing through smoke, lodging in the beast's maw. The explosion cracked, yellow flames bursting, the beast howling as its jaw charred, collapsing. The mage-lord fled, the rift dimming, grunts scattering.
The camp surged, spears thrusting, crossbows twanging. Torren's bolts chased the mage-lord, Redbeard's sword cleaved, Gav's dagger slashed, Lyssa's barrier held. Granite-Face roared, "Hold!" The Dominion broke, the Verdant Scar's craters swallowing their dead. Yuto staggered, sulfur choking him, arm bleeding, rash burning. Clutched it. Oracle of Mud, baby.
Mid-morning, the trial resumed in the command tent, its canvas walls dim, torches flickering. Three Valthar priests, their serpent cloaks glinting, stood beside Granite-Face, Karl's stolen sulfur vial and a coded parchment—found in Karl's gear—on the table. The head priest, gaunt and coal-eyed, intoned, "Yuto of Mud, your 'alchemy' is judged. Speak." Yuto's heart pounded, his inner thoughts racing. This is a rigged boss fight, but Karl's the real hacker. His sabotage tipped Dominion attacks—those rifts hit too clean. Gotta outtalk these zealots like Cicero, flip the script.
Yuto's strategy clicked, blending World Warfare 4 cunning and courtroom persuasion. Expose Karl, rally allies, demo my bomb as science. "Sarge, priests, my powder's no sorcery—it's fire, like forges. Karl's the traitor. That parchment's Dominion code—check his boots, his hands, my sulfur. He's why rifts hit us hard, why we lost half our squads." He glanced at Torren, Lyssa, and Mara, their faces tense. Torren stepped up, holding Karl's ash-marked boots. "Found these, Sarge, with this." He tossed the parchment, its runes glowing faintly. Lyssa's staff flared, a light spell illuminating the code, her confidence glowing despite a stumble. "He's no hero, priests!" Mara's voice cut, her rebel past raw. "I knew spies like him—Karath's fall, same game. Yuto's powder burned Dominion; Karl fed 'em our blood."
Granite-Face's eyes narrowed, seizing the parchment. "Dominion runes, attack plans—our losses match these dates." Soldiers gasped, Karl's allies shrinking back. The head priest faltered, but snarled, "Prove your powder's clean, heretic!" Yuto nodded, leading them outside to a stump, setting a bomb—sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter, fuse tight. "Watch—no chants, no magic." The fuse hissed, the bomb cracked, flames bursting, the stump splintering. Soldiers cheered, priests silent. Granite-Face grunted, "Yuto's clear. Karl's the spy—chain him for execution." The verdict landed, Yuto's chest easing, but Karl's glare promised vengeance.
Yuto's musket dream burned, Mara's iron scraps ready. "Smelt these, lad," she'd said, her voice low. "I forged for Karath's rebels—broke armies, broke me. Your gun'll defy priests." Her past—hunted alchemist, Karath's fall—mirrored Yuto's fight. The camp's filth lingered—latrines reeked, sores spread, no soap. Yuto's rage flared. New gear, no hygiene. I'm one cut from death. Lyssa, bandaging Redbeard, shone, her spells earning grunts' nods. "I'm no fumble, Mud Boy," she said, tripping but steadying. Torren clapped Yuto's shoulder, mentorship firm. "You're a pain, Mud Boy, but you win. Karl's kind took my squad—don't let 'em take you."
Dusk brought a scout's cry: "Dominion's massing—north, a vast army! Mages, beasts, siege engines, thousands!" Granite-Face unrolled a map, the Verdant Scar Braxium's eastern bulwark, Fort Kren's fall a wound. "They're coming for Valthar's Seat," he growled, jabbing north. Yuto's mind reeled, the war's scale—Braxium, Dominion, Thalra, Karth, tribes—crushing. This is total war, and we're the front line. A new rift flared, red-glow eyes gleaming, mage-lords chanting. Granite-Face's whip cracked. "Mud Boy, ready your boom, or we're dust!" Yuto's brain froze. That army's endgame, and I'm low on bombs.