The Verdant Scar shuddered as the red-glowing rift split wider, a clawed limb—black-scaled, veins pulsing green—thrusting forth, followed by a colossal creature, its roar splintering the dawn. Yuto Akiyama's scrawny frame froze on the camp's northern rise, his steel breastplate glinting, crossbow trembling in his grip, his dented helm reflecting the beast's neon spines. The creature towered, a fusion of serpent and boar, its maw dripping acid, eyes like molten rubies, Dominion sorcery radiating from its hide. Braxium's camp—a sprawl of tents, fresh capital-supplied armor, and crossbows—erupted in chaos, soldiers forming ranks, their blue tunics crisp but faces pale. Yuto's new bomb, a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter, hung at his belt, its fuse a desperate hope. His inner thoughts churned, fear clashing with gamer grit. This thing's a raid boss from hell, and I'm on trial for witchcraft. Karl's priest buddies want me burned, and this camp's a biohazard. Gotta clutch this fight or I'm done—eaten or executed.
The air reeked of ozone, ash, and the camp's rancid latrines, Yuto's rash burning under his tunic. His hygiene rage flared—soldiers coughed with sores, the stream was a plague pit, no soap despite new gear. Capital sent armor but no Purell? This world's a death trap. His gunpowder obsession burned, Mara's musket sketch vivid. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—check. Forge a barrel, and I'm sniping these freaks. Gotta survive to build it. Granite-Face's whip cracked, his scarred face taut. "Mud Boy, stop that beast, or you're kindling!" Karl's priest allies, cloaked in Valthar's serpent sigils, whispered "heretic," their eyes glinting.
Yuto's World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, his mind channeling Hannibal's ambushes and Roman testudo formations. The Verdant Scar's terrain was his weapon: a gully west, choked with glowing vines, could slow the beast; a crater field north, pocked with green pools, could bog it; a ridge east offered crossbow range. Dominion grunts and mages flanked the creature, axes glinting, staves flaring green. Choke point, volley, environmental trap—let's roll. "Torren, ridge, snipe the mages! Gav, Redbeard, gully—block the grunts! Lyssa, backline, no flubs! Crossbowmen, crater field—volley low!" Yuto barked, sprinting to the gully, crossbow ready, breastplate clanking.
Torren scaled the ridge, his rune-etched armor glinting, crossbow twanging, bolts piercing mage throats, blood spraying. His mentorship cut through, voice low. "Mud Boy, I fought a rift-beast once—north front, years back. Aim for the eyes, break its focus." His green eyes held scars of lost fights, a bond forged in survival. Yuto nodded, gripping his bomb. Torren's my carry. Redbeard's sword met grunts' axes in the gully, sparks flying, his amulet pulsing, blood seeping from his old wound. Gav's crossbow fired, a bolt nicking a grunt's arm, his new gear steady despite his weasel face's grimace. Lyssa, capelet flapping, raised her staff, her blonde hair wild. "I'll banish this fiend!" Her crystal surged blue-white, a shimmering barrier snapping up, deflecting a mage's bolt with a crack. She stumbled, tripping on a root, but held firm, grinning. "Epic, Mud Boy!"
Yuto's quip was quick. "Glitter Queen, you're leveling up! Don't trip your ult!" Lyssa's blush mixed with pride, her growth clear despite the fumble. The beast charged the crater field, its claws rending earth, acid spit sizzling on a crossbowman's armor, his scream cut short as he melted. Yuto's plan clicked—the gully slowed the grunts, the ridge pinned the mages, but the beast's bulk was unstoppable. A crater's green pool bubbled nearby, its vines humming. Environmental DPS—bog it down. "Crossbowmen, aim for the legs! Drive it to the pool!" he roared. Bolts flew, steel tips sinking into the beast's shins, black ichor spraying. It roared, veering toward the pool, its claws slipping in the slick mud, vines snaring its limbs.
The mages rallied, their staves pulsing, a green wave shattering Lyssa's barrier. She fell, gasping, but chanted, her crystal flaring. A crackling bolt shot forth, slamming a mage's stave, the wood splintering, the mage crumpling. "Take that, filth!" she shouted, catching herself mid-trip. Yuto grinned. "Yo, Lyssa, you're cracked!" Her spell was clutch, her control sharpening. The beast thrashed, vines snapping, its spines slashing a crossbowman, blood pooling. Yuto's bomb was his ace, its fuse unlit. Mara's warning echoed, her wiry frame tense as she'd handed him the saltpeter. "It's volatile, lad—too much, and you're gone. I burned Dominion camps with less, for Lord Karath, till Valthar's priests hunted me. Your musket's close—find iron, and you'll rewrite war." Her rebel past, defying dogma, fueled Yuto's drive. She's my crafting queen.
Yuto eyed the beast's maw, its acid dripping, a weak point glowing green. Hit that, stagger it. He lit the bomb's fuse, sparks spitting, and sprinted, dodging a mage's bolt that scorched his breastplate, the heat blistering his chest. His hygiene rage spiked—no medkits, no clean water, just filth and death. A grunt's axe swung, grazing 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's roar choking as its jaw charred, staggering back, ichor gushing. The grunts faltered, mages' spells flickering, the rift's glow dimming.
The camp surged, soldiers in new armor thrusting spears, crossbows twanging. Torren's bolts dropped mages, Redbeard's sword cleaved, Gav's dagger slashed, Lyssa's shield flickered back, blocking a bolt. Yuto collapsed, sulfur choking him, his arm bleeding, rash burning. Bomb's MVP again. Oracle of Mud, baby. Granite-Face roared, "Hold!" The beast retreated, dragging itself to the rift, grunts fleeing, mages' staves dim.
Mid-battle's lull, a rider from the capital galloped in, his blue cloak torn, handing Granite-Face a sealed letter. The sergeant's face darkened, reading aloud: "Fort Kren, western frontier, overrun. Dominion's breached the line, mages and beasts pouring east." Soldiers gasped, Valthar's priests muttering prayers. Granite-Face turned to Yuto's patrol, voice grim. "You need to know the war's shape, Mud Boy. This ain't just the Scar."
He unfurled a crude map, the Verdant Scar a jagged slash on Braxium's eastern border, flanked by the Blackspire Mountains north and Thalric Plains south. "The war's got three fronts," he growled. "Here, the Scar—Dominion's heartland border, where their sorcery festers, tainting land and beasts. We hold the line, but it's a meat grinder. North, the Frostfang Peaks—Braxium's miners clash with Dominion's wyverns, supplies cut thin. West, the Kren Frontier—plains and forts, where Karth's neutral empire watches. Fort Kren's fall means Dominion's pushing to our capital, Valthar's Seat." He jabbed the map. "Braxium's human, Valthar's faith binding us, but stretched. Thalra, our theocratic ally south, sends priests and coin, not men. Karth, east, trades with both sides, playing vulture. Dominion's a sorcerous empire, their mages twisting life, their lords craving conquest. Minor tribes—goblins, orcs—pick sides or die."
Yuto's mind reeled, the war's scale dwarfing his gamer brain. This ain't a skirmish—it's a total war campaign. The Verdant Scar's role as Braxium's eastern bulwark, soaked in Dominion taint, hit hard. We're the front door, and it's buckling. His hygiene rage flared—the camp's latrines reeked, sores spread, no soap despite new gear. Fort Kren's gone, and we're next if I don't shift the meta. His musket dream burned, Mara's sketch vivid—iron barrel, flint spark.
Post-battle, Mara slipped Yuto iron scraps, scavenged from broken gear. "Smelt these, lad, for your musket. I forged blades for Karath's rebels—same craft." Her eyes held a hunted rebel's fire, her past a warning. Torren clapped Yuto's shoulder, mentorship firm. "You fight smart, Mud Boy. Kren's fall means we're next—stay sharp." Lyssa, bandaging Redbeard, glowed, her spells earning grunts' nods. "I'm no fumble, Mud Boy," she said, tripping but steadying. Yuto grinned. "You're half-decent, Glitter Queen."
Karl's priest allies circled, their whispers growing, one clutching a sulfur vial—stolen, no doubt. Yuto's bomb had saved the day, but the witch hunt lingered, his arm bleeding, rash burning. The Verdant Scar pulsed, green flares rising. A scout's cry shattered the dusk: "More rifts—east, west! Beasts crawling out!" The ground trembled, red-glow eyes gleaming in the mist, Dominion mages chanting. Granite-Face's whip cracked. "Mud Boy, ready another boom, or we're meat!" Yuto's brain froze. Multiple rifts? This is endgame, and I'm low on ammo.