The Verdant Scar's eastern horizon flared red as the new rift tore open, spitting Dominion mage-lords on tainted wyrm-beasts, their staves blazing green fire, flanked by snarling, neon-spiked creatures. Yuto Akiyama braced on Braxium's crumbling palisade, his steel breastplate dented, crossbow trembling, his bomb—a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter—heavy at his belt. The camp's soldiers, in crisp blue tunics and capital-supplied armor, formed desperate lines, crossbows raised, their breaths ragged as the rift's roar shook the earth. The air reeked of ash, ozone, and the camp's rancid latrines, Yuto's rash burning under his tunic, his dented helm slipping. His inner thoughts churned, a storm of guilt and resolve. This ain't World Warfare 4—it's real. Torren, Redbeard, gone. Every bomb, every call, it's lives now, not points. I screw this, and Lyssa, Gav, the camp—they're dead. Gotta clutch, no respawns.
His hygiene rage flared—soldiers coughed with sores, the stream a plague pit, no soap despite new gear. Capital sent armor, not bandages. One cut, and I'm septic. His gunpowder obsession burned, Mara's musket sketch vivid. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—check. Forge a barrel, and I'm sniping these freaks. Gotta save my squad first. Granite-Face's whip cracked, his scarred face grim. "Mud Boy, close that rift, or you're meat!" Valthar's priests, their serpent cloaks glinting, watched Yuto, Karl's execution fresh, his "more spies" warning haunting.
Yuto's World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, his mind channeling Salamis' terrain traps and Cannae's encirclement. The Verdant Scar's chaos was his board: a gully west, vine-choked, could slow beasts; a crater field east, with green pools, could bog wyrms; a ridge north offered crossbow range. Funnel, snipe, boom. "Gav, Lyssa, gully—block beasts! Crossbowmen, ridge—volley mages! I'm hitting the crater field!" Yuto roared, sprinting east, crossbow loaded, breastplate clanking. No Torren to guide, no Redbeard to tank—his squad was thin, and it hit hard. I'm no commander, but I'm all they've got.
Gav, his weasel face grim, fired crossbow bolts into the gully, nicking a beast's flank, his new armor steady despite a limp from last battle. Lyssa, capelet flapping, raised her staff, her blonde hair wild. "I'll shield us, Mud Boy!" Her crystal flared blue-white, a massive barrier snapping up, deflecting a mage-lord's bolt with a crack. She stumbled, tripping on a root, but held firm, grinning. "Epic, right?" Yuto's quip was sharp, grief-tinged. "Glitter Queen, you're MVP! Don't drop it!" Lyssa's blush mixed with steel, her magic peaking, Torren's loss hardening her. "For them," she whispered, eyes fierce.
The wyrm-beasts charged the gully, claws rending earth, acid spit sizzling a soldier's armor, his scream cut short. Yuto reached the crater field, its green pools bubbling, vines humming. His plan clicked—the gully slowed beasts, the ridge pinned mages, but the wyrms' speed was lethal. A mage-lord's staff pulsed, green waves shattering Lyssa's barrier. She fell, chanting, her crystal flaring. A targeted blast shot forth, slamming a wyrm's maw, ichor smoking as it reared, throwing its rider. "Take that, fiends!" she shouted, catching herself mid-trip. Yuto's heart lifted. She's carrying Torren's fire.
Crossbowmen on the ridge fired, bolts sinking into mage-lords' cloaks, blood spraying. Gav's dagger slashed a beast's throat, ichor gushing, but a claw grazed his leg, dropping him. Yuto eyed a wyrm's underbelly, a glowing weak point. Hit that, break 'em. His inner dialogue surged. This is real—Gav's bleeding, Lyssa's barely standing. No game overs, just graves. 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 beast's tail whipped, grazing his arm, blood welling. He hurled the bomb, the pot arcing through smoke, lodging in the wyrm's belly. The explosion cracked, yellow flames bursting, the beast collapsing, ichor flooding the pool.
The camp surged, spears thrusting, crossbows twanging. Lyssa's barrier flickered back, blocking bolts, Gav's dagger slashed, crossbowmen dropped mages. The rift dimmed, wyrms retreating, mage-lords fleeing into the mist. Granite-Face roared, "Hold!" The Verdant Scar swallowed the dead, Braxium's line battered but standing. Yuto staggered, sulfur choking him, arm bleeding, rash burning. His thoughts were heavy. We won, but I'm no hero. Torren, Redbeard—they'd have clutched harder. This isn't a game; it's their blood on my hands.
Scouts galloped in, breathless. "Dominion's retreating—rifts closing, forces pulling back north! Fort Kren stretched 'em thin!" Granite-Face grunted, unrolling a map, the Verdant Scar Braxium's eastern bulwark, Fort Kren's fall a scar. The war's scale—Braxium's monarchy, Dominion's sorcery, Thalra's priests, Karth's vultures, scattered tribes—weighed on Yuto. They're bailing, but we're bleeding. Peace won't last. The camp, half-ruined, faced a quiet period, soldiers bandaging wounds, rebuilding walls. Yuto's thoughts turned inward. No respawns, no save points. I'm not just playing—I'm fighting for Lyssa, Gav, Mara. Gotta make this musket, end this war clean.
Mara, tending wounded, slipped Yuto iron scraps and a flint shard. "Forge these, lad," she whispered, her wiry frame tense. "I built war-fire for Karath, burned their mages—cost me my home. Your gun'll break Dominion, but don't let it break you." Her rebel past—hunted alchemist, Karath's fall—mirrored Yuto's fight, her grief for Redbeard raw. Lyssa, bandaging Gav, stood taller, her spells earning nods. "We did it, Mud Boy," she said, tripping but steadying, her eyes red for Torren. "They'd be proud." Gav, grim, nodded. "Aye, we gutted 'em for Redbeard." Yuto's chest tightened. I'm no commander, but I'll keep 'em alive.
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. Granite-Face, whip coiled, clapped Yuto's shoulder, a rare nod. "Mud Boy, you held the line. Oracle of Mud, huh?" The peaceful period loomed, but Karl's "more spies" warning echoed. As Yuto mixed powder for his musket, a scout's cry pierced the dusk: "Eastern ridge—stragglers! Dominion mages, hiding in craters!" A red-glow flickered, a lone mage-lord chanting, a rift sparking. Yuto's brain froze, his inner dialogue grim. Peace my ass—this war's got no pause button.