Yuto Akiyama's life had officially hit rock bottom, and rock bottom was a muddy clearing in the Verdant Scar, surrounded by glowing-eyed ghouls that looked like they'd crawled out of a Dark Souls randomizer mod. The Dominion shrine loomed behind him, its runes pulsing green like a neon warning sign screaming "You're about to wipe." His scouting patrol—Torren the cynical archer, Lyssa the wannabe battlemage, Gav the weasel-faced complainer, and Redbeard the prayer-muttering tank—were scrambling to form a defensive line as gray-skinned humanoids erupted from cracks in the earth, their jagged blades glinting with malevolent intent. Yuto's spear shook in his hands, his gamer brain chanting, When you trigger a cutscene but forgot to save.
"Yo, this is NOT a balanced encounter!" Yuto yelped, dodging a ghoul's swipe that nearly took his head off. His boots slipped in the mud, his tattered tunic clinging to his skin like a wet sock. The Verdant Scar was a nightmare of charred earth and twisted vines, its craters glowing with the same green taint as the shrine. The air reeked of decay and ozone, the latter a sharp tang that screamed magic to Yuto's Earth-trained senses. No Wi-Fi, no guns, just swords and sorcery BS. This world is straight-up Bronze Age, and I'm stuck in a melee build with zero stats.
Torren loosed an arrow, its blue-glowing tip thudding into a ghoul's chest. The creature staggered but kept coming, its eyes burning like toxic LEDs. "Dominion's work," Torren growled, nocking another. "These ain't natural. Stay sharp, Mud Boy, or you're ghoul bait."
"Sharp? I'm barely functional!" Yuto shot back, jabbing his spear and missing by a mile. His arms ached, his gamer physique screaming for a keyboard instead of a weapon. This is worse than lag in a ranked match. One hit, and I'm perma-dead. His mind raced, replaying the brutality of the past two days—orc axes splitting skulls, wolves tearing flesh, and now these undead freaks. Braxium's war was a meat grinder, its soldiers wielding sharpened sticks while the Dominion threw magic like cheat codes. Back home, we'd have AR-15s, drones, maybe a nuke. Here? I'm fighting with a pointy twig. This world's fucked.
Lyssa, true to form, chose that moment to strike a pose, her staff raised and her tunic straining against her "legendary" curves. "Behold, mortals! Lyssa Starweaver shall banish these abominations!" Her crystal sparked, then coughed out a pathetic puff of smoke. The ghouls didn't even blink, but Yuto's meme-lord brain fired: When you spec into charisma but your spells are on cooldown. "Nice one, Sparkle Tits," he called, dodging another ghoul. "Your magic's got all the power of a wet firecracker."
"How dare you!" Lyssa shrieked, her face flushing as she tripped over a vine, her skirt hiking up to reveal… well, more than Yuto needed to see. "My arcane might is unmatched! I just need… more mana!" She swung her staff like a baseball bat, accidentally clonking a ghoul, which staggered, more surprised than hurt. Yuto snorted. "Yo, Aqua 2.0, stick to flashing the camp. It's your only crit hit."
Gav, fending off a ghoul with his spear, laughed so hard he nearly dropped it. "Mud Boy's got a point, lass! Your tits are doin' more damage than your spells!" Redbeard, hacking at a ghoul with a rusty sword, chimed in with a lewd chuckle. "Aye, those charms could stop an orc charge. Shame they don't work on ghouls." Lyssa's outraged squeal was drowned out by the clash of steel and snarls.
Torren's voice cut through the chaos. "Less yapping, more stabbing! Mud Boy, you got another ditch trick, or are we just screwed?" Yuto's brain, trained on a decade of RTS and FPS, scanned the clearing. The ghouls were relentless but predictable, charging in waves like bots in a tower defense game. The shrine was the key—its green pulse seemed to drive them, like a server hub spawning mobs. If we break that, maybe we crash their script. But the clearing was too open, and the patrol was outnumbered, their line buckling like a noob team in a 5v5.
Then he saw it: a pile of loose rocks near the shrine, stacked precariously on a slope. Environmental hazard? Bet I can trigger an avalanche. "Torren, cover me!" Yuto shouted, sprinting toward the rocks, his spear dragging like a bad peripheral. Torren cursed but loosed a volley, his glowing arrows keeping the ghouls at bay. Lyssa, desperate to redeem herself, lobbed a fireball that actually hit, setting a ghoul ablaze. "Ha! Take that, you skeptics!" she crowed, only to trip again, her staff skidding into the mud.
"Focus, Bayonetta!" Yuto yelled, reaching the rocks. He shoved his spear under the pile, leveraging with all his scrawny might. The rocks groaned, then tumbled, crashing into the ghouls with bone-crunching force. Dust and green-tinted blood filled the air, the shrine's pulse flickering as the avalanche buried half the mob. The remaining ghouls faltered, their coordination glitching like a laggy server.
"Now!" Torren roared, and the patrol surged forward, spears and swords finishing the job. Yuto collapsed, gasping, his spear stuck in the mud. Did I just… win again? With ROCKS? His gamer ego soared, but his inner thoughts were darker. This world's a death trap. No medkits, no ballistics, just blood and bullshit magic. If I'm gonna survive, I need an edge. Guns. Gunpowder. Something to make these medieval losers eat lead.
The patrol regrouped, bloodied but alive. Torren clapped Yuto's shoulder, his smirk grudgingly impressed. "Oracle of Mud strikes again. You're either blessed by Valthar or the luckiest bastard in Braxium." Lyssa, brushing mud off her skirt, huffed. "Hmph! My fireball was the real hero here." Yuto rolled his eyes. "Sure, and your cleavage is the MVP of morale."
Granite-Face arrived with reinforcements, his scowl softer than usual. "Mud Boy, you turned a shitshow into a slaughter. Keep that up, you might not be flogged." Yuto grinned, but his mind was elsewhere, fixating on the shrine's shattered runes, still faintly glowing. Magic's OP, but it's unreliable. Gunpowder's simple. Mix sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—boom, instant meta shift. I could turn this war into a first-person shooter.
Back at camp, the Verdant Scar's grim reality hit Yuto harder. The army's camp sprawled across a muddy rise, its tents sagging under drizzle that smelled of ash. Soldiers huddled around fires, their faces etched with exhaustion, carving runes into weapons or praying to Saint Valthar's winged serpent. The cook's stew, laced with glowing herbs, was a foul mix of roots and mystery meat, but Yuto choked it down, his stomach rebelling. No pizza, no ramen, just this medieval slop. And hygiene? Forget it. These guys haven't heard of soap, let alone antibiotics. He scratched at a rash forming under his tunic, his gamer brain screaming, This world's got a permadeath setting, and I'm one infection away from game over.
His thoughts spiraled. On Earth, wars were fought with precision—drones, rifles, satellites. Here, it was all brute force, soldiers hacking each other like NPCs in a low-budget RPG. The orcs, the ghouls, the Dominion's sorcery—it was chaos, no strategy, just bodies thrown into the grinder. If I could make a musket, even a crude one, I'd be unstoppable. Blow through their armor, outrange their mages. I'd be the ultimate carry. His mind raced, recalling high school chemistry: sulfur from volcanic springs, charcoal from burned wood, saltpeter from… bat guano? Great, I'm gonna be the guy digging through shit for gunpowder. New low, Yuto.
The camp's culture only deepened his frustration. Soldiers swapped crude tales—Redbeard's latest involved a "lusty smith's daughter" and a hammer that "worked overtime," earning laughs and Yuto's mental note: Medieval OnlyFans is thriving. Superstitions ran rampant: a scout refused to sleep under a crescent moon, claiming it "angered Thalra," while another tied a glowing amulet to his belt, muttering about "warding off curses." Lyssa, preening by the fire, boasted about her "arcane lineage," but her latest spell—a "light charm"—fizzled into a spark that singed Gav's beard. "Oi, Sparkle Tits, aim for the enemy next time!" Gav snapped, patting out the flames.
Yuto's jabs at Lyssa were relentless, her impracticality a perfect target. "Yo, Lyssa, your skirt's so short it's pulling aggro from the next kingdom. Ever heard of armor?" She glared, thrusting her chest out. "My attire enhances my mana flow, you cretin! Not that you'd understand true power." Yuto snorted. "Yeah, your 'power' is giving every soldier a debuff called Distraction." The squad roared, but Lyssa's indignant huff hid a smirk, like she secretly enjoyed the banter.
Torren, sharpening his arrows, offered Yuto a rare nod. "You're not half bad, Mud Boy. That rock trick was clever, but don't get cocky. Dominion's got worse than ghouls." Yuto's ears perked up. "Worse? Like, what, dragons? Demons?" Torren's eyes darkened. "Let's just say their mages don't fizzle like our princess here." Lyssa squawked in protest, but Yuto's mind was on guns. A rifle could outrange a mage. No counterspell for a bullet.
Karl, the burly soldier, wasn't laughing. He loomed nearby, his cronies whispering as they glared at Yuto. "Oracle of Mud, my arse," Karl spat, loud enough for the fire to hear. "Just a lucky conscript stealing glory. Next time, I'll show you how a real man fights." Yuto shrugged, his gamer bravado kicking in. "Cool story, bro. Bet you're the tank who pulls the whole dungeon." Karl's scowl promised trouble, and Torren's warning echoed in Yuto's head: Glory's a currency, and you're hoarding it.
That night, Yuto was assigned to clean the patrol's gear—a "reward" for his shrine stunt. He scrubbed blood and green gunk off spears, his hands raw, his mind churning. This world's a mess. No tech, no sanitation, just magic and meatheads. If I can make gunpowder, I'll change the meta. No more hacking at orcs like it's a Viking LARP. I'll bring the Second Amendment to Braxium. He pictured a flintlock, crude but effective, blasting through Dominion armor. Step one: find sulfur. Step two: don't blow myself up. Easy, right?
The camp slept, but the Verdant Scar didn't. Its craters pulsed green, and the distant Blackspire Mountains glowed faintly purple, like a server warning of an incoming patch. Yuto's squad gathered around a fire, swapping stories. Gav recounted a tavern brawl involving "three wenches and a keg," while Redbeard prayed to Valthar, his amulet glowing. Lyssa, trying to "enhance" the fire, set her capelet ablaze, flailing until Torren doused her with water. "Gods, lass, you're a walking disaster," he muttered, but his smirk betrayed amusement.
Yuto's obsession grew, his thoughts drifting to Earth's history: black powder, muskets, cannons. If I can source the materials, I could prototype something. Turn this war into a tower defense game with me as the turret. But doubts crept in. What if magic counters it? What if I just make things worse? The Dominion's sorcery nagged at him—those ghouls weren't random. The shrine was a hub, maybe a spawn point. Bet it's tied to their endgame. Gotta grind more intel.
Dawn broke, gray and miserable. Granite-Face summoned the patrol, his face grimmer than usual. "Scouts found a Dominion camp, mile north. Bigger than we thought. They're moving something—carts, glowing green. Mud Boy, you're with us. Don't cock it up." Yuto's heart sank. Another mission? I'm still on cooldown! But his gun obsession flared. If they've got resources, maybe sulfur. Time to clutch.
As the patrol marched, the forest thickened, vines pulsing like corrupted code. A scout ahead froze, raising a hand. Yuto squinted, spotting movement—carts, yes, but guarded by figures in black robes, their staves glowing green. Mages. Freaking mages. Before he could strategize, a scream echoed, not from the patrol but from above. A massive shadow passed overhead, wings blotting out the sky, its roar shaking the trees. Yuto's meme-lord brain froze: Bro, is that a DRAGON? I'm SO not ready for this DLC.