The Verdant Scar's green-tinted craters pulsed like toxic Minecraft portals, and the distant Dominion horn still echoed in Yuto Akiyama's ears like a Fortnite storm warning. His patrol—Torren, Lyssa, Gav, Redbeard, and two shell-shocked scouts—trudged back to Braxium's camp, their boots squelching in mud that smelled like a Skyrim bandit camp's latrine. Yuto's scrawny frame was a walking biohazard, his tattered tunic caked with dirt, blood, and something he prayed wasn't boar guts. His dented helmet slipped over his eyes, his spear dragged like a noob's overextended push, and the rash under his armpit burned like a Dark Souls poison debuff. This world's a straight-up F-tier dumpster fire, he thought, his meme-lord brain in overdrive. No showers, no soap, just filth and vibes. One bad cut, and I'm out with medieval sepsis. GG, life.
The camp loomed ahead, a sprawl of sagging tents and flickering fires, reeking of sweat, stew, and despair. The Verdant Scar's scarred hills glowed green, vines humming like corrupted server cables, and the Blackspire Mountains pulsed purple, screaming Elden Ring final boss vibes. Yuto's gunpowder obsession burned hotter than a Call of Duty killstreak. I nabbed sulfur. Charcoal's just burned wood. Saltpeter's the grind—latrines or caves. One musket, and I'm clutching this war like Shroud in his prime. His inner thoughts darkened, Earth's comforts haunting him. Back home, I'd have antibiotics, hot showers, Wi-Fi. Here? I'm dodging death by dysentery while orcs and mages play Hunger Games.
Torren, leading with his bow slung, shot Yuto a look, his weathered face grim under rune-etched leather. "Mud Boy, you're zoning out like a League of Legends feeder. Stay sharp—Dominion's red glow ain't a light show." Lyssa, tripping over a root, waved her flickering staff, her blonde hair defying the filth. "Fear not, peasants! Lyssa Starweaver shall illuminate our path!" Her crystal sparked, then coughed out glitter that dusted Redbeard's beard. He sneezed, his amulet pulsing. "Lass, your 'illumination' is givin' me a rash!" Yuto's brain fired: When you roll for a 5-star spell but get a 3-star emote. "Yo, Glitter Queen, your magic's got Wish.com energy. Stick to sparkling, not spell-casting."
"Rude!" Lyssa huffed, her capelet snagging, nearly toppling her. "My arcane brilliance outshines your muddy strats!" Gav, his weasel face smirking, chimed in. "Aye, her sparkles are pullin' more aggro than Mud Boy's plans." Yuto grinned. "Bet her ult's still on cooldown from the last wipe." Lyssa's pout was pure Anime Betrayal Arc, but her eyes twinkled, like she was secretly vibing with the meme storm.
Yuto's hygiene rant boiled over as they neared camp. The latrines were open pits, buzzing with flies and reeking like a Fallout rad zone. Soldiers bathed in a muddy stream, their wounds festering like The Witcher plague sores. The stew, spiced with glowing herbs, smelled like it could knock out a raid boss. This is beyond sus, Yuto thought. No sanitation, no medicine, just prayers and runes. I'm one scratch from game over, and these guys are cool with it? His gunpowder dream flared. A musket would end fights clean—no guts, no infections. I'd yeet Braxium into the gun age and maybe invent soap while I'm at it.
The patrol's path back wasn't a cakewalk. A Dominion scout squad—six grunts, two mages—ambushed them in a gully, their axes and green-glowing staves screaming gank alert. Yuto's World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, his brain channeling Sun Tzu's Art of War meets StarCraft macro. The gully was a choke point, but a ridge above offered a flank. Pincer strat, Hannibal style. "Torren, take the ridge! Gav, Redbeard, hold the gully! Lyssa, don't screw this up!" he barked, dodging an axe. Torren raised an eyebrow but complied, his blue-glowing arrows raining from above. Redbeard's sword and Gav's flailing spear clogged the gully, while Lyssa's fireball—shockingly on point—scorched a mage. "Bow to my epicness!" she crowed, tripping into a bush.
Yuto, spear slick from Karl's sabotage, spotted a fallen tree leaning over the gully. Environmental trap, let's go. "Redbeard, topple that tree!" Redbeard, praying to Valthar, shoved, the trunk crashing onto the grunts, pinning three. Torren's arrows and Lyssa's stray sparks finished the mages, their staves fizzling like a Destiny shader glitch. Yuto grinned, his gamer ego soaring. Clutched it like a 1v6 in Valorant. Oracle of Mud strikes again.
Back at camp, the filth hit Yuto like a Among Us sabotage. A soldier coughed, his face pocked with sores. Another scratched a festering wound, no bandages in sight. The latrines overflowed, and the stream was a petri dish of doom. This ain't a camp, it's a biohazard zone, Yuto thought, his stomach churning. Earth had Purell, clinics, plumbing. Here, they're one plague away from a server wipe. His rash flared, his boots stank, and a whiff of his tunic made him gag. Enough. I'm not dying to medieval germs before I build a gun.
He stormed to Granite-Face's command tent, a patched canvas monstrosity guarded by two grunts. "Sarge, we need to talk!" Yuto snapped, barging in, his spear clattering. Granite-Face, hunched over a crude map, looked up, his scarred face a mix of annoyance and surprise. "Mud Boy, you got a death wish? Speak, and it better be good."
"This camp's a cesspool!" Yuto exploded, his gamer rage peaking. "Latrines are bio-weapons, soldiers are dropping from infections, and we're bathing in a swamp! No soap, no bandages, just glowing herbs and prayers? We're fighting orcs and mages, not the Black Death! Fix this, or we're all fragged!" His brain screamed: When you report a bug but the devs ignore it.
Granite-Face's eyes narrowed, his whip hand twitching. "You're a conscript, not a lord. You don't give orders." Yuto didn't back down, his Earth logic overriding fear. "I'm not asking for a spa, Sarge! Clean water, basic meds—hell, boil the damn pots! I've seen soldiers die from cuts a Band-Aid could fix. You want an army or a graveyard?"
Karl, lurking near the tent flap, smirked, his hulking frame blocking the light. "Oracle of Mud's whining now? Maybe he's too soft for war." Yuto's eyes flicked to his spear, its slick grip a dead giveaway. "Says the guy who slimed my gear, Karl. Real pro move, griefing a teammate." Karl's scowl deepened, his hand on his broadsword, but Granite-Face raised a hand. "Enough. Mud Boy, you're out of line. Karl, stow it. We've got bigger problems—Dominion's red glow's closing in."
The tension hung like a Rainbow Six standoff, Yuto's rash itching, his frustration boiling. This world's stuck in the Stone Age, and Sarge thinks I'm the problem? He stormed out, the camp's filth fueling his gunpowder dream. A musket would end fights clean—no gore, no germs. I'm done with this melee meta.
At the fire, Yuto found Mara, the wiry alchemist, grinding glowing herbs. "That sulfur, lad—mixed it yet?" she asked, her eyes sharp. Yuto pulled out his pouch, his brain sketching a bomb: sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. "Got charcoal?" he asked. Mara nodded, tossing him a blackened stick. "Burned oak, fresh. What's your game?" Yuto grinned. "Big boom strat. Ever heard of gunpowder?" Mara's brow furrowed, intrigued. "Sounds like mad alchemy. Keep it quiet—Valthar's priests don't like 'unnatural' crafts."
Yuto's squad gathered, their banter a brief respite. Gav griped about the stew, "Tastes like a Fallout radroach." Redbeard prayed, his amulet glowing, muttering about Thalra's wrath. Lyssa tried a "light charm," blinding Gav. "Yo, Glitter Queen, your spell's got Overwatch flashbang energy," Yuto quipped. Lyssa huffed, "My brilliance outshines your mud, peasant!" Her smirk showed she was in on the meme.
Karl's sabotage escalated. Yuto's spearhead was loose, nearly falling off—that bastard's trying to frag me. Torren noticed, his cynicism softening. "Karl's got a vendetta, Mud Boy. Your strats are stealing his glory. Watch your six." Yuto nodded, his brain plotting. Need gunpowder fast. Karl won't expect a boom.
As night fell, the Verdant Scar pulsed green, its craters like Destiny 2 raid markers. Yuto tested his charcoal, grinding it with sulfur, his bomb sketch taking shape. Saltpeter's next—latrines, ugh. But a scout's scream shattered the calm. "Dominion's here! Red glow, mages, beasts—hundreds!" The camp erupted, Granite-Face barking orders. Yuto's spear clattered, loose head falling—Karl's smirk visible across the fire. A red glow crested the ridge, and a massive silhouette loomed, not a beast but a machine, its gears grinding like a Gears of War boss. Yuto's brain froze: That's a siege engine, and I'm rocking a broken stick. FML.