The glow of three monitors bathed Yuto Akiyama's cramped Tokyo apartment in a kaleidoscope of RGB chaos, casting flickering shadows across a battlefield of empty energy drink cans, instant ramen cups, and a half-eaten bag of shrimp chips. His room was a shrine to nerd-dom: a World Warfare 4: Total Domination poster plastered above his desk, a figurine of a pixelated knight wielding an oversized sword, and a keyboard so worn the WASD keys were practically craters. The air hummed with the whine of overworked cooling fans and the faint buzz of his headset, where his Twitch chat was losing its collective mind.

"GOD-TIER STRAT\, YUTO!" scrolled a message from xX_SniperWolf_Xx. "THIS IS WHY YOU'RE THE MEME LORD!" Another user\, BigChungus420\, spammed a string of eggplant emojis\, which Yuto chose to interpret as enthusiastic support rather than… well\, anything else. He grinned\, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he orchestrated a flawless pincer maneuver\, his digital army crushing the enemy's base in a glorious explosion of polygons. The chat erupted in a storm of PogChamps and "LFG!" chants.

"Alright, chat, let's keep the streak alive!" Yuto's voice, hoarse from 23 hours of streaming, crackled through his mic. At 25, he was a legend in the World Warfare 4 competitive scene—not for his reflexes, which were average at best, but for his brain. Yuto didn't just play; he strategized. Years of devouring military history books, from Sun Tzu to Clausewitz, mixed with an unholy obsession with RTS games, had turned him into a tactical savant. His streams were less about flashy kills and more about outsmarting opponents with maneuvers so clever they felt like cheating. His tagline? "It's not a bug, it's a feature."

But the 24-hour marathon was pushing even his limits. His vision blurred at the edges, his heart doing a weird jittery thing that probably wasn't just caffeine. "One more match," he muttered, chugging the dregs of a neon-green energy drink that tasted like battery acid and broken dreams. "Gotta hit that 10K follower milestone. Then I'm crashing harder than a noob's economy in StarCraft."

The match was a bloodbath. Yuto's team, a ragtag crew of international randos, was up against Team Apex, a pro squad known for their ruthless coordination. Yuto's chat was a warzone of hype and trash talk, with AnimeTiddyLad dropping a particularly inspired meme: When Yuto flanks, it's like getting NTR'd by Sun Tzu. Yuto snorted, nearly choking on his drink. "Yo, TiddyLad, keep it PG-13 or I'm yeeting you to timeout city."

His strategy was a masterpiece: bait the enemy into overextending, then hit their supply lines with a hidden cavalry unit. It was a classic World Warfare move, straight out of his mental library of historical battles—think Hannibal at Cannae, but with tanks and drones. The enemy fell for it, their forces crumbling as Yuto's chat exploded with "EZ CLAP" and "MEME LORD STRIKES AGAIN!" His heart pounded, not just from the win but from something else—a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.

"Alright, chat, that's—urgh—that's the game," he gasped, clutching his chest. The room spun, his monitors blurring into a kaleidoscope of light. "Gonna… gonna take a quick break. Don't unsubscribe, you filthy casuals." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. The last thing he saw was his chat, oblivious, spamming F's in chat as a joke. Then, darkness.

Yuto expected to wake up in a hospital, maybe with an IV drip and a nurse scolding him about his life choices. Or, if he was lucky, he'd get that classic isekai treatment: a goddess in a sparkly dress offering him a cheat skill and a harem of catgirls. Instead, he got pain. His entire body felt like it had been drop-kicked by a mecha, and his nose was assaulted by a stench so foul it could only be described as medieval. Wet earth, sweat, and something suspiciously like manure clogged his senses.

He jolted upright, or tried to—his arms sank into cold, sticky mud, and he face-planted back into it with a wet splat. "What the hell is this laggy garbage?" he sputtered, spitting out a clump of dirt that tasted like regret. His hands scrambled, searching for his phone, his headset, anything familiar. Nothing. Just rough, scratchy fabric clinging to his skin, a far cry from his comfy Attack on Titan hoodie. He wiped the mud from his eyes and blinked at his surroundings, his gamer brain desperately trying to process the loading screen of his new reality.

The sky above was a bruised gray, heavy with clouds that promised rain and misery. He was sprawled in a ditch beside a rutted dirt road, surrounded by a landscape that screamed post-apocalyptic fantasy DLC. Twisted, blackened trees dotted rolling hills, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. In the distance, jagged mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in mist that glowed faintly with an unnatural purple hue. Okay, that's some serious lore bait, Yuto thought, his meme-lord brain kicking in. Bet there's a dark lord up there or some ancient prophecy BS.

Nearby, a cacophony of noise drew his attention: the clank of metal, the creak of wooden wheels, and the low murmur of voices punctuated by coarse laughter. Yuto crawled to the edge of the ditch, peering over the lip. A ragtag army stretched along the road, a motley crew of soldiers in mismatched armor—leather vests, dented helmets, and cloaks patched with more stitches than a Frankenstein cosplay. Some carried spears, others swords, and a few lugged crossbows that looked like they'd jam after one shot. Ox-drawn carts groaned under piles of supplies, their wheels sinking into the mud with every lurch.

The soldiers themselves were a study in grim exhaustion. Faces caked with dirt, eyes hollow from too many battles, they trudged with the kind of resignation Yuto recognized from late-night grind sessions. A few younger recruits, barely older than teenagers, clutched their weapons with white-knuckled fear, their armor hanging off them like hand-me-downs from a thrift store. The air carried the tang of smoke and the faint, unsettling sweetness of decay, as if the land itself was rotting.

This is NOT a VR sim, Yuto realized, his stomach twisting. No graphics are this detailed. And no dev would code a smell this bad. His hands patted his body, confirming the worst: no phone, no wallet, just a tattered tunic, pants that chafed in places he didn't want to think about, and boots so worn they were basically socks with ambition. "Okay, Yuto, don't blue-screen. Let's troubleshoot. Step one: find the menu. Step two: log out. Step three: sue whoever thought this was immersive."

He pinched his arm, hard. "Ow! Nope, not a dream. Maybe a coma? Or…" His eyes widened as the pieces clicked together, his anime-obsessed brain filling in the blanks. "No way. Did I just get isekai'd? Like, full-on Sword Art Online trapped-in-the-game vibes? Where's my cheat skill? Where's my tutorial NPC?"

A shadow fell over him, and Yuto's head snapped up to meet the glare of a man who looked like he'd been forged in a volcano and tempered in pure spite. The guy was massive, his face a roadmap of scars framed by a beard that could hide a small ecosystem. His armor, a patchwork of steel and leather, creaked as he loomed, a coiled whip in one hand and a sword at his hip that looked like it had personally ended dynasties.

"Oi, you! Private Akiyama!" the man barked, his voice like gravel in a blender. "Quit lollygaggin' in the mud like a damned hog! Fall in, or I'll flay ya and use your hide for boots!"

Yuto blinked, his brain short-circuiting. "Private? Akiyama? Bro, how do you know my name? And what's with the Game of Thrones cosplay? Is this a cult? I'm not signing up for any blood oaths, okay?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and the whip cracked inches from Yuto's face, sending a spray of mud across his cheek. "Move, worm! Or I'll feed ya to the orcs myself!"

Orcs? ORCS?* Yuto's meme-lord brain went into overdrive, conjuring an image of a Lord of the Rings extra with a "low battery" warning flashing over its head. "Okay, okay, chill, I'm moving!" He scrambled to his feet, his legs wobbling like a noob in a platformer. The mud sucked at his boots, each step a squelching reminder that this world didn't have a "skip cutscene" option.

He stumbled toward the ragged line of soldiers, their eyes flicking to him with a mix of pity and amusement. One, a lanky guy with a face like a weasel and a smirk to match, leaned over and muttered, "Welcome to the meat grinder, Mud Boy. Try not to die on day one."

"Mud Boy? Rude," Yuto shot back, his gamer instincts kicking in. "Your face is giving NPC energy, my dude. Bet you're scripted to die in the first boss fight."

The weasel-faced guy—Gav, Yuto overheard later—snorted, clearly unsure whether to laugh or punch him. Yuto mentally bookmarked him as Potential Sidekick #1. The army lurched forward, a chaotic procession of clanking armor and muttered curses. Yuto fell into step, or tried to—his legs weren't built for marching, and his boots kept slipping in the mud. This is worse than lag in a ranked match. Where's the low-ping server for this world?

The Kingdom of Braxium, he pieced together from overheard grumbling, was not having a good time. The soldiers spoke in hushed tones of a war that had dragged on for years, a continent-spanning meat grinder pitting Braxium against the Iron Dominion, a rival nation with a knack for churning out armies like they were on an assembly line. The road they marched wound through the Verdant Scar, a once-lush valley now scarred by siege engines and sorcery. Charred patches of earth smoked faintly, and the air carried a metallic tang that made Yuto's stomach churn. Okay, that's some serious world-building. Bet there's a wiki page for this place somewhere.

Hints of magic flickered at the edges of his perception. A soldier's amulet glowed faintly blue, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. A distant explosion lit the horizon, not with the orange of gunpowder but a sickly green that lingered like a bad glitch. Yuto's brain scrambled to rationalize it. Mana? Some kind of Wi-Fi for wizards? Gotta metagame this ASAP.

His musings were cut short by a shout from the front. "Halt! Scouts report enemy movement! Prepare for engagement!" The army ground to a stop, soldiers gripping their weapons with a mix of fear and resignation. Yuto's heart jackhammered, his gamer brain screaming Tutorial boss incoming! He was handed a spear—more like a sharpened stick, really—and nearly dropped it, the weight making his arms tremble. This is NOT controller-friendly.

The forest to their left erupted with movement—dark shapes darting between trees, the glint of steel catching the dim light. Arrows whistled through the air, one thunking into a cart inches from Yuto's head. He yelped, diving behind the cart, his spear clattering uselessly. "Yo, where's the cover system? This game SUCKS!" His brain, trained on a decade of RTS and FPS, kicked into overdrive, scanning the terrain. The enemy was funneling through a narrow gap between the forest and a rocky outcrop—a textbook choke point. Wait. This is straight out of World Warfare. Flank their backline, disrupt their DPS, GG.

"Gav!" Yuto hissed, spotting the weasel-faced soldier crouched nearby. "There's a ditch to the right. We can loop around, hit their archers. Trust me, it's a pro strat!"

Gav stared, his eyes wide. "You're cracked, Mud Boy! That's a death trap!"

"No, it's a flank!" Yuto snapped, adrenaline overriding his terror. "Like, think Among Us sabotage vibes. We mess up their flow, we win!" He didn't wait for Gav's reply, scrambling toward the ditch, his spear dragging like an oversized pool noodle. To his shock, Gav followed, muttering curses that would've gotten him banned on Twitch.

The ditch was shallow, barely cover, but it curved behind the enemy's position. Yuto's heart pounded, his meme-lord brain chanting, Leeroy Jenkins, don't fail me now! They reached the enemy's rear, where three archers were calmly picking off Braxium's soldiers. Yuto's plan was simple: rush, scream, hope for the best. "Go! Emergency meeting energy!" he yelled, flailing his spear like a drunk cosplayer.

Gav, to his credit, charged with a squeaky war cry, his spear actually connecting with an archer's shoulder. The other two fumbled, one tripping over his own quiver, the other bolting into the forest. Yuto's spear didn't hit anything, but the chaos was enough. The enemy's formation wavered, their front line turning to face the "attack" from behind. Braxium's soldiers seized the moment, pushing forward with a roar.

Yuto collapsed into the ditch, gasping, his spear lost in the chaos. Gav stared at him, panting. "How'd you… how'd you know that'd work?"

"Basic pincer strat, bro," Yuto wheezed, grinning despite the terror. "Total noob trap." Internally, he was freaking out. Did I just win a REAL fight? With a DITCH?

The sergeant—Granite-Face, Yuto dubbed him—stomped over, his whip coiled but his scowl softer. "You, Mud Boy. That your doin'?"

"Uh, maybe?" Yuto said, his brain supplying, When the NPC gives you a quest reward but you're still level 1. "Just a… tactical thing."

Granite-Face grunted, eyeing him like he was a bug that might be useful. "Keep it up, and you might not die tomorrow." He turned away, barking orders, but Yuto caught a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe respect.

As the army regrouped, Yuto's gaze drifted to the horizon. The green glow from the earlier explosion lingered, pulsing like a heartbeat. A soldier nearby muttered about "Dominion sorcery," and Yuto's gamer instincts tingled. Magic. Freaking MAGIC. This is gonna be a problem.

Then, a low, guttural horn sounded from the forest, deep and resonant, like something out of a nightmare raid boss. The soldiers froze, their faces paling. Granite-Face's hand tightened on his sword. "Orcs," he growled. "They're coming."

Yuto's heart sank, his meme-lord brain offering one last, unhelpful thought: Bro, I did NOT sign up for the hardcore DLC.

The horn's guttural wail lingered in the air like a bad jumpscare, sending a shiver down Yuto Akiyama's spine that had nothing to do with the cold mud caking his tattered tunic. He crouched in the ditch, his heart jackhammering so hard he half-expected it to clip through his ribcage. Around him, the Kingdom of Braxium's ragtag army froze, their faces drained of color like players who'd just seen "Server Shutdown in 5 Minutes" pop up mid-raid. The sergeant—Granite-Face, as Yuto had dubbed him—gripped his sword, his scarred face twisting into a snarl. "Orcs," he growled, the word landing like a debuff on the entire camp.

Orcs? Freaking ORCS? Yuto's meme-lord brain spun into overdrive, conjuring images of World of Warcraft grunts crossed with Lord of the Rings bodybuilders on steroids. "Bro, I did NOT queue for the hardcore DLC," he muttered, clutching his spear—a glorified stick that felt about as useful as a pool noodle in a boss fight. His gamer instincts screamed run, but the ditch was shallow, and the nearest cover was a splintered cart twenty yards away, currently being peppered with stray arrows from the earlier skirmish. No respawns, no checkpoints, and my stats are straight-up NPC-tier. GG, life.

"Form ranks, you dogs!" Granite-Face bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic like a server admin's ban hammer. The soldiers scrambled, their mismatched armor clanking as they formed a ragged line across the muddy clearing. Yuto stumbled out of the ditch, his boots slipping in the muck, and nearly face-planted into Gav, the weasel-faced soldier who'd reluctantly followed him in the flank. Gav's eyes were wide, his spear trembling. "Mud Boy, you got another crazy plan, or are we just screwed?"

"Plan? I'm still processing the fact that orcs are a thing!" Yuto hissed, his brain supplying a meme: When you finish the tutorial but the game spawns a level 50 raid boss. He peeked over the line, scanning the forest where the horn had sounded. The Verdant Scar stretched before them, a war-ravaged valley of charred earth and twisted trees, its hills pocked with craters that smoked faintly with a greenish glow. The air carried a metallic tang, mixed with the sour reek of sweat and fear. In the distance, the Blackspire Mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in mist that pulsed with an unnatural purple hue, like a glitched texture in a AAA game. Bet there's a final boss up there, just waiting to one-shot me.

The forest rustled, branches snapping like firecrackers. Yuto's grip tightened on his spear, his arms already aching from its weight. Why couldn't I get isekai'd with a cheat skill? Like, instant aimbot or a summonable mech? His eyes darted to the soldiers around him, a grim gallery of humanity's worst Yelp reviews. Some were grizzled veterans, their faces scarred and eyes hollow, clutching swords with the weary precision of men who'd seen too many battles. Others were conscripts like him, barely holding it together, their spears wobbling like they were auditioning for a comedy skit. One guy, a beefy redhead with a beard like a bird's nest, was muttering prayers to "Saint Valthar," his amulet glowing faintly blue. Magic. Freaking magic. Gotta metagame this ASAP.

Granite-Face stomped down the line, his whip coiled but ready. "Hold, you worms! First orc you see, you stick it! Aim for the guts—they're softer there!" He paused by Yuto, his glare boring into him like a lag spike. "Mud Boy, don't piss yourself. You pulled that ditch trick; maybe you ain't useless."

"No promises, Sarge," Yuto said, forcing a grin despite the terror clawing his chest. "But if we're fighting orcs, can I at least get a +1 spear? This one's got 'common loot' written all over it." Granite-Face snorted—almost a laugh, which Yuto counted as a win—and moved on. Gav leaned over, whispering, "You got a death wish, talkin' to Sarge like that?"

"Nah, just maxing out my charisma stat," Yuto quipped, though his voice cracked. Charisma, zero. Strength, negative ten. Luck, apparently in the gutter.

The forest exploded with movement. Dark shapes burst from the trees, their roars shaking the ground like a subwoofer cranked to eleven. Yuto's jaw dropped. These weren't the orcs of his gaming fantasies—hulking but slow, easy to kite. These were monsters. Eight feet tall, their green-gray skin rippling with muscle, they charged with terrifying speed, wielding axes and maces that looked like they could bisect a tank. Their eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and their tusks gleamed with what Yuto hoped wasn't blood. Okay, these guys are NOT lore-friendly. They're straight-up Dark Souls NG+.

"Brace!" Granite-Face roared. The line tensed, spears lowering like a porcupine's quills. Yuto tried to mimic them, but his spear wobbled, nearly poking Gav in the back. "Sorry, bro, friendly fire off!" he yelped. Gav cursed, something about Yuto's mother and a goat, which Yuto filed under medieval trash talk.

The orcs hit the line like a tsunami, their weapons crashing against spears with bone-jarring force. Screams erupted, mixed with the sickening crunch of metal on flesh. Yuto's gamer brain kicked into overdrive, analyzing the chaos like a World Warfare 4 match. The orcs were brute-forcing, relying on raw power, but their formation was sloppy, spread out like noobs chasing kills. Braxium's line was holding—barely—but gaps were forming as soldiers fell or broke ranks. This is a DPS check, and we're failing. Need a choke point or a CC ability, stat.

His eyes locked on the terrain. The clearing narrowed to the left, where a cluster of boulders formed a natural bottleneck. If they could lure the orcs there, they'd lose their numerical advantage. Classic funnel strat. Like Thermopylae, but with uglier Spartans. The problem? Getting anyone to listen to a scrawny conscript who looked like he'd trip over his own ego.

"Gav, cover me!" Yuto shouted, darting toward Granite-Face, who was locked in a duel with an orc that looked like it bench-pressed dragons. Yuto ducked a swinging mace, his spear dragging uselessly. "Sarge! We gotta move left, to the boulders! Funnel 'em like it's a MOBA lane!"

Granite-Face parried a blow, blood streaming from a gash on his arm. "What's that gibberish, Mud Boy?" he snarled, kicking the orc's knee and driving his sword into its chest. The beast collapsed, but another was already charging.

"Bottleneck!" Yuto yelled, dodging a stray arrow. "Narrow the field, reduce their DPS—uh, their numbers! Trust me, it's a pro strat!" His brain supplied a meme: When you try to shotcall but your team's stuck in bronze.

Granite-Face's eyes flicked to the boulders, then back to Yuto. "You better not be mad, boy. Sound the retreat! Left flank, to the stones!" A horn blared, and the soldiers began a chaotic fallback, dragging wounded comrades as the orcs pressed forward, roaring in triumph.

Yuto scrambled with them, his legs burning, his spear more a tripping hazard than a weapon. He tripped over a root, face-planting into the mud—again—and Gav hauled him up, muttering, "You're gonna owe me a week's rations for this, Mud Boy."

"Put it on my tab," Yuto gasped, spitting dirt. They reached the boulders, a jagged cluster that forced the orcs to squeeze through two at a time. The line reformed, spears bristling. The orcs, caught in the bottleneck, flailed, their axes catching on stone or each other. Braxium's archers, perched on a nearby rise, loosed a volley, arrows thudding into green flesh. Okay, this is working. I'm basically Napoleon with worse hair.

But the orcs weren't done. A massive one—easily ten feet tall, with tusks like scimitars—shoved through the bottleneck, shrugging off arrows like they were mosquito bites. Its mace swung, shattering a boulder and sending two soldiers flying. Granite-Face cursed, rallying the line, but Yuto saw the panic spreading. That's the mini-boss. We're SO not geared for this.

Then he noticed it: a rickety supply cart, abandoned near the boulders, its axle broken but its load intact—barrels of what smelled like lamp oil. Explosive environmental hazard? Oh, this is straight out of a speedrun. "Gav, Redbeard, with me!" Yuto shouted, pointing at the cart. The redheaded soldier, still clutching his glowing amulet, blinked but followed, muttering about Valthar's wrath.

"What's the play, Mud Boy?" Gav asked, ducking as an orc axe whistled overhead.

"Boom strats!" Yuto said, grinning despite the chaos. "We roll that cart into the bottleneck, light it up, instant AOE damage. Like a Call of Duty killstreak."

Redbeard frowned. "AOE? You speak in riddles, lad."

"Area of effect, big guy! Big boom, lots of dead orcs. Trust the nerd!" Yuto scrambled to the cart, his scrawny arms straining as he pushed. Gav and Redbeard joined, grunting as the cart lurched forward, its barrels sloshing. An archer nearby tossed them a torch, clearly thinking they were insane but too busy to argue.

They shoved the cart toward the bottleneck, where the mega-orc was carving through the line like a hacker in a pub lobby. Yuto's heart pounded, his meme-lord brain chanting, YOLO, YOLO, YOLO! "Light it!" he yelled. Redbeard hurled the torch, and the oil-soaked barrels erupted in a whoosh of flame, the cart careening into the orcs.

The explosion was glorious—orange and green flames licking the sky, the shockwave knocking Yuto flat. Orcs screamed, their formation collapsing as the bottleneck became a fiery killzone. The mega-orc staggered, its armor scorched, and Granite-Face seized the moment, rallying the soldiers to finish it off. Spears and swords flashed, and the beast fell, shaking the ground.

Yuto lay in the mud, ears ringing, staring at the sky. Did I just… pull that off? With a CART? Gav hauled him up, grinning like a maniac. "Mud Boy, you're either a genius or the luckiest bastard I ever met."

"Genius, obviously," Yuto wheezed, though his brain was screaming, RNGesus, I owe you one. The soldiers around him cheered, a ragged but genuine sound. Even Granite-Face gave him a nod, his blood-streaked face almost approving. "Not bad, Mud Boy. Keep that up, you might live a week."

The nickname stuck. By nightfall, as the army set up camp in the shadow of the boulders, Yuto overheard whispers of "Mud Boy" and "the cart trick." Some called him "Oracle of Mud," half-joking, half-awed. He sat by a fire, gnawing on a chunk of bread that tasted like sawdust, his body aching but his gamer ego soaring. Okay, medieval hellscape, I see you. No cheats, but I've got strats for days.

The camp was a grim affair, sprawled across a muddy rise overlooking the Verdant Scar. Tents of patched canvas sagged under the drizzle, their occupants a mix of wounded, exhausted, and drunk. The air buzzed with soldierly banter—crude jokes about orc anatomy, complaints about rations, and bets on who'd die next. Yuto caught a particularly lewd story from Redbeard about a barmaid in Braxium's capital, involving a "strategic deployment" that made Yuto choke on his bread. Medieval Tinder sounds wild, he thought, filing it under future meme material.

Braxium's culture peeked through the grime. A soldier carved a rune into his spear, muttering about "warding off Dominion curses." Another wore a pendant shaped like a winged serpent, the symbol of House Valthar, Braxium's ruling dynasty. The camp's cook, a wiry woman with a face like a prune, ladled out stew that smelled like despair but was laced with herbs Yuto didn't recognize—spicy, almost glowing under the firelight. Magic spices? Bet they're pay-to-win.

Yuto's musings were interrupted by Gav, who plopped down beside him, reeking of sweat and cheap ale. "So, Oracle of Mud, what's next? Gonna blow up the whole Dominion with a magic fart?"

"Only if you supply the fuel, bro," Yuto shot back, earning a laugh. "Nah, I'm just tryna not die. This world's got magic, orcs, and zero Wi-Fi. I need to level up my meta."

Gav squinted. "Meta? You talk like a bloody sorcerer."

"Means strategy, my dude. Like, how do we not get ganked tomorrow?" Yuto's eyes drifted to the horizon, where the green glow from the prologue's explosion still pulsed faintly. Dominion sorcery, huh? Bet it's OP as hell.

Granite-Face approached, his armor dented but his presence commanding. "Mud Boy, you're on night watch. Don't fall asleep, or I'll string you up by your twiggy arms." He tossed Yuto a dented helmet, which clanged off his head. "And clean that spear. It's a disgrace."

"Night watch? Sarge, I'm a strategist, not a tank!" Yuto protested, but Granite-Face was already gone. He sighed, hefting his spear, which was caked with mud and orc blood. This is my life now. No mouse, no keyboard, just vibes and violence.

The camp settled, the fire's glow casting long shadows. Yuto trudged to the perimeter, his helmet slipping over his eyes. The Verdant Scar stretched below, its craters glowing faintly green, like eyes watching from the dark. A chill wind carried whispers—maybe the wind, maybe something worse. Bet there's a ghost side quest out there. Hard pass.

He leaned on his spear, his gamer brain replaying the battle. The cart trick was dumb luck, but the bottleneck? That was pure World Warfare strats. If he could keep pulling those, maybe he'd survive long enough to figure out this isekai nonsense. Why me? Random spawn, or am I some chosen one cliche?

A rustle snapped him out of it. His head whipped toward the forest, where shadows moved—not orcs, but smaller, stealthier. Eyes glinted in the dark, and a low growl sent his heart into overdrive. "Gav? Sarge? Anyone?" he whispered, his spear trembling. No answer, just the growl growing louder, closer.

Then, a flash of green light erupted from the forest, not an explosion but a pulse, like a spell going live. The shadows surged forward, and Yuto's meme-lord brain offered one last, unhelpful thought: Bro, I'm about to get speedrun by something, and I didn't even save.

Yuto Akiyama's night watch was going about as well as a solo queue in World Warfare 4 with a team of AFK noobs. His dented helmet slipped over his eyes, his spear felt like it weighed a ton, and the Verdant Scar's chilly wind was doing unspeakable things to his already chafed nether regions. He stood at the camp's perimeter, staring into the forest where shadows danced like hackers in a laggy lobby, their eyes glinting with a hunger that screamed "you're about to get ganked." The green pulse from moments ago still lingered in his memory, a sickly glow that had his gamer brain chanting, Magic. Freaking OP magic. And now, that growl—low, guttural, like a raid boss warming up for a wipe.

"Yo, Gav? Sarge? Anyone wanna swap shifts?" Yuto whispered, his voice cracking like a preteen in a voice chat. No answer, just the distant snores of Braxium's army, sprawled across a muddy rise in a patchwork of sagging tents. The campfires cast flickering shadows, painting the Verdant Scar in hues of orange and despair. Craters pocked the valley below, their edges glowing faintly green, like toxic sludge in a sci-fi shooter. The air carried a metallic tang, mixed with the sour reek of unwashed soldiers and the faint, spicy scent of the camp's mystery stew. Bet it's laced with mana or some pay-to-win herb, Yuto thought, clutching his spear tighter.

The growl came again, closer, and Yuto's meme-lord brain kicked into overdrive: When you're level 1 and the game spawns a world boss. He squinted into the dark, his heart jackhammering. The shadows resolved into shapes—sleek, canine, with glowing yellow eyes and teeth that gleamed like rare loot. Wolves? Hellhounds? Bet they've got a poison debuff. There were at least six, slinking toward the camp's edge, their movements eerily coordinated, like a pro guild on comms.

"Okay, Yuto, don't blue-screen," he muttered, backing up until his boot squelched in a puddle. "Just sound the alarm. Easy. Like hitting F to report a cheater." He fumbled for the horn at his belt—a dented brass thing Granite-Face had tossed him with a grunt—only to drop it in the mud. "Crap! RNGesus, why you gotta do me like this?" He scrambled to grab it, his spear clattering to the ground, when a voice cut through the dark.

"Oi, Mud Boy! You plannin' to fight those beasts with your face in the dirt?" The voice was dry, raspy, like it had smoked a pack of medieval cigars. Yuto's head snapped up to see a lanky figure leaning against a nearby tent, a longbow slung over his shoulder. The man was older, maybe forty, with a face like weathered leather and eyes that glinted with cynical amusement. His armor was patched leather, adorned with runes that glowed faintly blue, and a scruffy beard framed a smirk that screamed "I've seen it all, and it's all stupid."

"Uh, hi? New friend? Please don't let me die," Yuto blurted, snatching the horn. The man—Torren, Yuto later learned—snorted, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. "Blow that horn, kid, or we're all wolf chow. And try not to piss yourself. It's bad for morale."

Yuto jammed the horn to his lips, puffing out a sad, wheezy toot that sounded more like a dying goose than a call to arms. Torren rolled his eyes. "Gods, you're hopeless. Gimme that." He snatched the horn and let out a sharp, piercing blast that jolted the camp awake. Soldiers stumbled from their tents, cursing and grabbing weapons, as Granite-Face's roar echoed: "To arms, you lazy bastards!"

The wolves—or whatever they were—didn't wait. They surged forward, their growls rising to snarls that vibrated in Yuto's chest. Torren loosed an arrow, the shaft glowing blue as it thudded into a beast's flank, dropping it with a yelp. "Dominion-tainted," he muttered, nocking another. "Bloody sorcery's twistin' the wildlife. Stay behind me, Mud Boy, unless you wanna be a chew toy."

"Dominion? Sorcery? Bro, I need a lore dump!" Yuto yelped, grabbing his spear and holding it like a scared kid with a stick. His gamer brain was screaming analyze the meta, but all he could process was big teeth, bad news. The wolves spread out, flanking the camp's edge, their eyes locked on the scrambling soldiers. Okay, they're smart. Like, AI-bot smart. We need a choke point or an AOE nuke.

Before he could strategize, a new voice rang out—high-pitched, dramatic, and way too confident. "Fear not, peasants! Your salvation has arrived!" Yuto turned to see a woman strutting—strutting—toward the chaos, her hips swaying like she was on a catwalk instead of a battlefield. She was maybe twenty, with a cascade of blonde hair that somehow stayed pristine despite the mud, and a figure that could've launched a thousand Twitch subs. Her outfit was… impractical: a tight, low-cut tunic that barely contained her "assets," a skirt that defied gravity, and a capelet embroidered with stars that screamed "I'm a mage, ask me how!" A wooden staff, topped with a glowing crystal, wobbled in her hand like she'd just picked it up at a Renaissance fair.

"Who's that?" Yuto muttered, his meme-lord brain already firing: When you roll a charisma build but dump-stat everything else. Torren groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Lyssa, self-proclaimed battlemage. More trouble than she's worth. Watch, she'll botch this worse than you botched that horn."

Lyssa raised her staff, striking a pose that showed off way too much cleavage for a warzone. "By the power of Saint Valthar's sacred flames, I, Lyssa Starweaver, shall smite these foul beasts!" Her crystal glowed, sparks crackling—then fizzled out with a sad pop. The wolves didn't even flinch, but Yuto's brain supplied a meme: When you cast a level 1 spell but the boss has 99% magic resist.

"Uh, nice try, Sparkle Tits," Yuto called, unable to resist. "Maybe try rebooting your wand?" Lyssa's face flushed, her eyes narrowing. "How dare you, you muddy peasant! My magic is legendary! I just… need to warm up!" She thrust her staff again, muttering something about "mana channels," and a weak fireball sputtered out, singeing a wolf's tail. The beast yelped, more annoyed than hurt, and charged her.

"Great, now she's aggroed it," Torren muttered, loosing another arrow. Yuto's gamer instincts kicked in, scanning the terrain. The camp's perimeter was too open, but a nearby trench—used for latrines, judging by the smell—could funnel the wolves into a killzone. Nasty, but effective. Like camping a spawn point. "Torren, Lyssa, follow me!" he shouted, sprinting toward the trench, his spear dragging.

"Follow you? A filthy conscript?" Lyssa scoffed, but a wolf's snap at her heels sent her stumbling after him, her capelet flapping. Torren followed, muttering about "bloody idiots." Yuto slid into the trench, gagging at the stench. "Okay, we hold here. They come single-file, we pick 'em off. Like a Halo choke point."

"You're mad!" Lyssa shrieked, nearly tripping over her skirt. "This is a latrine! My robes are silk, you cretin!"

"Yeah, and your robes are giving 'OnlyFans cosplay' vibes," Yuto shot back, grinning despite the panic. "Focus, Aqua 2.0, or we're dog food." Lyssa sputtered, but Torren snorted, his arrow nocking. "Kid's got a mouth. Hope his brain's as sharp."

The wolves reached the trench, their bulk forcing them to squeeze through one at a time. Torren's arrows dropped the first, its body clogging the path. Yuto jabbed his spear, missing spectacularly but distracting the next wolf long enough for Lyssa to lob another fireball—this one actually hit, scorching the beast's flank. "Ha! Behold my power!" she crowed, striking another pose that nearly popped her tunic.

"Chill, Bayonetta, it's still alive!" Yuto yelped, dodging a swipe. Granite-Face and a dozen soldiers arrived, spears and swords flashing, turning the trench into a meat grinder. The wolves fell, their glowing eyes dimming, but Yuto noticed something odd: their blood shimmered green, pooling in the mud like toxic sludge. Dominion sorcery, huh? Bet it's some endgame plot twist.

The last wolf collapsed, and the soldiers cheered, though their faces were grim. Granite-Face stomped over, blood-streaked but alive. "Mud Boy, that trench was your idea?" Yuto nodded, bracing for a whip. Instead, the sergeant grunted. "Not bad. Don't let it go to your head." He turned to Lyssa, who was preening like she'd soloed the fight. "And you, mage, stop flashing your tits and learn a real spell."

Lyssa gasped, clutching her chest. "How dare you! I'm a battlemage! My charms are part of my magic!" Yuto couldn't resist: "Yeah, those charms are definitely casting Confusion on the whole camp." The soldiers roared with laughter, and Lyssa's face turned beet red, her staff sparking uselessly.

Torren clapped Yuto's shoulder, his smirk almost approving. "You're a weird one, Oracle of Mud. Keep that up, you might not die tomorrow." Yuto grinned, his ego soaring despite the stench clinging to his tunic. Two fights, two wins. I'm basically carrying this team.

The camp settled into uneasy rest, but Yuto's "Oracle of Mud" rep spread like a viral meme. By morning, soldiers whispered about his "ditch trick" and "trench strat," some with awe, others with envy. Camp life painted a vivid picture of Braxium's war machine: cooks ladled stew spiced with glowing herbs, their pots etched with runes to "ward off rot." Soldiers carved prayers into their weapons, invoking Saint Valthar or lesser gods like Thalra, patron of archers. A grizzled captain, his cloak bearing House Valthar's winged serpent, barked orders, his voice carrying the weight of a noble-born officer. The Verdant Scar loomed outside, its craters pulsing green, a reminder of the Dominion's sorcery scarring the land.

Yuto's new squadmates—Gav, Redbeard, Torren, and Lyssa—formed a chaotic crew. Gav's weasel-faced jabs kept Yuto sharp, Redbeard's lewd stories (like one about a "three-goat wager" in a tavern) kept him laughing, and Torren's dry quips kept him grounded. Lyssa, though, was a walking meme. She bragged about her "arcane lineage," but her spells fizzled more than they fired, and her outfit drew constant stares—and Yuto's jabs. "Yo, Lyssa, your skirt's so short it's got its own aggro radius," he teased, dodging her indignant staff swing.

But friction brewed. A burly soldier, Karl, glared at Yuto during rations, muttering about "upstart conscripts" stealing glory. "Oracle of Mud? More like King of Shit," he sneered, earning laughs from his cronies. Yuto shrugged it off, but Torren warned him later: "Watch Karl. He's got a mean streak and a long memory. Glory's a currency here, and you're hoarding it."

Yuto's gamer brain was too busy to care. The wolves' green blood nagged at him, a puzzle piece in Braxium's lore. He cornered Lyssa, who was polishing her staff with exaggerated care. "Yo, Sparkle Tits, what's with the green glow? Dominion sorcery—spill the tea."

Lyssa huffed, tossing her hair. "It's Lyssa Starweaver, you cretin. And yes, the Dominion taints beasts with their foul magic. It's… uh, complicated arcane stuff you wouldn't understand." Her vagueness screamed wiki stub, but Yuto caught a flicker of worry in her eyes. Bet she knows more than she's letting on. Gotta grind her dialogue tree later.

Granite-Face assigned Yuto to a scouting patrol, a "reward" for his trench strat. "Don't cock it up, Mud Boy," he growled, tossing him a rusty dagger to pair with his spear. Yuto groaned, his body aching from yesterday's chaos. "Sarge, I'm a glass cannon, not a rogue! Can I get a ranged slot?" No dice—Granite-Face was already gone.

The patrol was a slog through the Verdant Scar's northern edge, where the forest thickened into a tangle of gnarled trees and glowing vines that pulsed like server cables. Torren led, his bow ready, while Gav grumbled about missing breakfast, Redbeard muttered prayers, and Lyssa tripped over roots, her skirt riding up to comical levels. "Lyssa, your outfit's pulling more aggro than my strats," Yuto quipped, dodging her glare. "Focus, Mud Boy!" she snapped, her staff sparking. Torren chuckled. "Kid's got a point. You're a walking distraction."

The forest grew eerier, the air heavy with a hum Yuto couldn't place—magic, maybe, or something worse. They reached a clearing, where a stone obelisk stood, etched with runes that glowed green. The ground around it was scorched, littered with bones—animal and… not. "Dominion shrine," Torren muttered, his voice low. "They use 'em to channel their sorcery. Bad news."

Lyssa's eyes widened, her bravado faltering. "We should leave. Now." Yuto's gamer brain tingled. World event trigger? Bet it's tied to the wolves. He stepped closer, squinting at the runes, when the hum spiked, a green pulse washing over the clearing. The ground trembled, and cracks split the earth, revealing glowing eyes—dozens, staring up from the dark.

"Ambush!" Torren yelled, nocking an arrow. Shapes erupted from the cracks—not wolves, but humanoid, their skin gray and eyes green, wielding jagged blades. Ghouls? Minions? Freaking trash mobs! Yuto's spear shook, his meme-lord brain offering one last quip: When you trigger a cutscene but forgot to save.