The Dominion siege engine's red glow bathed the Verdant Scar in a hellish light, its silhouette looming over the ridge, a colossus of black iron and grinding gears. Yuto Akiyama's scrawny frame trembled, his dented helmet slipping, his spear—its head still loose from Karl's sabotage—gripping like a lifeline. Braxium's camp was a frenzy of shouts and clanking steel, soldiers scrambling to form ranks as the engine's roar shook the earth, a deep, bone-rattling pulse. The Verdant Scar's craters flared green, vines twisting like living cables, the air thick with sulfur and the rancid stench of open latrines. Yuto's mind raced, his gamer instincts screaming. This world's a death trap—no tech, no hygiene, just blood and bad smells. One infection, and I'm out. Gotta make this bomb work or we're all fragged.
Granite-Face's voice cut through the chaos, his scarred face taut as he shoved Yuto's patrol—Torren, Lyssa, Gav, Redbeard, and two wide-eyed archers—toward the front. "Mud Boy, you're on point! Don't choke, or I'll hang you with your own guts!" Yuto's rash burned under his mud-caked tunic, the camp's filth fueling his rage. Latrines overflowing, soldiers coughing up plagues, no soap—this ain't a war, it's a biohazard. His gunpowder obsession burned brighter, the sulfur pouch and charcoal stick from Mara tucked in his belt. One boom, and I'm yeeting this war into the next century.
Torren, his rune-etched leather creaking, nocked an arrow, his weathered face grim. "Stay sharp, Mud Boy. That engine's no orc—it'll crush us flat." Lyssa, her blonde hair tangled but defiant, raised her flickering staff, her capelet flapping. "Fear not! Lyssa Starweaver shall shatter this abomination!" Her crystal sparked, then fizzled, a sad puff of smoke drifting upward. Yuto snorted. "Nice try, Glitter Queen. Your magic's got all the punch of a wet noodle." Lyssa huffed, tripping over a tent peg. "My brilliance will save you yet, peasant!" Gav, his weasel face smirking, muttered, "Bet her brilliance blinds us first." Redbeard, clutching his glowing amulet, prayed to Valthar, his beard quivering.
The engine advanced, its gears screeching, red-glowing runes pulsing along its iron flanks. Dominion grunts swarmed its base, axes glinting, while three robed mages on its platform channeled, their staves flaring green. Yuto's strategic mind kicked in, years of World Warfare 4 and military history guiding him. That's a mobile fortress—tanky, high DPS. Mages are the backline, engine's the threat. We need a flank and a disrupt. He scanned the terrain: a ravine to the left, narrow and rocky, could bottleneck the grunts. A crumbling watchtower nearby offered height for Torren's bow. Classic high-ground strat.
"Torren, take the tower! Gav, Redbeard, ravine—hold the grunts! Lyssa, stay back and don't fizzle!" Yuto barked, sprinting toward the ravine, his loose spearhead wobbling. Torren nodded, scaling the tower's rubble, his arrows already flying, blue-glowing tips thudding into grunts. Redbeard and Gav charged the ravine, their weapons clashing against axes, the narrow walls echoing with grunts' roars and steel's clang. Lyssa hesitated, her staff trembling, but followed, muttering about "arcane destiny."
Yuto reached the ravine's edge, the engine's heat washing over him, its gears grinding like a giant's teeth. His bomb—a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur and charcoal, a makeshift fuse of twisted cloth—felt heavy in his hands. No saltpeter yet, but Mara said this mix might spark. If I screw this, I'm a human frag. His hygiene rage flared, the camp's stench clinging to him. No medkits, no clean water—soldiers die from cuts while Dominion's got death machines. This bomb's my meta shift.
The grunts pressed into the ravine, their axes hacking at Redbeard's guard. He swung his sword, blood spraying, his amulet pulsing as he roared Valthar's name. Gav's spear jabbed wildly, nicking a grunt's arm. Yuto's plan was working—the ravine slowed the enemy, but the engine rolled closer, its red glow searing, a massive iron ram poised to crush the camp. The mages' green bolts lanced downward, one grazing Gav's shoulder, the wound sizzling. Yuto's brain raced. Gotta hit the engine's weak point—gears or mages.
He scrambled to Mara's tent earlier that day, her wiry frame hunched over a mortar, grinding glowing herbs. "Your sulfur's volatile, lad," she'd said, her eyes sharp like a hawk's. "Mixed with charcoal, it'll burn hot—maybe burst if sparked right. Saltpeter's the key for a true boom, but that's rare. Caves, maybe, or old latrines." Yuto had blinked. "You're saying I dig through shit for explosives?" Mara's laugh was dry. "Alchemy's dirty work. I once brewed fire-pots for a rebel lord—till Valthar's priests called it blasphemy." Her tone hinted at secrets, a life dodging Braxium's dogma. "Keep this quiet, or you're burned as a witch."
Now, clutching the bomb, Yuto eyed the engine's undercarriage, where gears spun exposed. Weak point, bet. But a grunt lunged, axe swinging. Yuto dove, his spearhead clattering off—Karl, you bastard. Unarmed, he rolled behind a boulder, the grunt's axe sparking against stone. Lyssa, nearby, raised her staff, her face pale. "I… I'll save you!" Her crystal flared, not fizzling but surging, a blue-white light erupting. A shimmering barrier snapped into place, the grunt's axe rebounding with a clang. The force knocked Lyssa back, her capelet tearing, but she grinned, shaky but triumphant. "Behold my power, peasant!"
Yuto's jaw dropped. Glitter Queen just clutched? "Yo, Lyssa, that's an actual spell! You're not a total noob!" Her blush mixed with pride, but she tripped, the barrier flickering. The grunt recovered, roaring, but Torren's arrow pierced its throat, blue light fading as it collapsed. Yuto grabbed his bomb, the fuse damp from mud. Gotta light this now. He snatched a torch from a fallen grunt, his hands shaking as he sparked the fuse, its hiss like a countdown.
The engine's ram was yards away, its shadow swallowing the ravine. Yuto sprinted, dodging a mage's bolt that scorched the ground, the heat blistering his arm. He hurled the bomb, aiming for the gears, the pot arcing like a desperate lob. It struck, lodging in the mechanism, the fuse spitting sparks. Please don't dud. The bomb erupted—not a massive blast but a sharp crack, yellow flames licking the gears, black smoke billowing. The engine shuddered, its advance stalling, gears grinding to a halt with a metallic scream. Grunts faltered, mages' spells flickering as the red glow dimmed.
The camp roared, soldiers surging forward, spears thrusting. Torren's arrows rained, Redbeard's sword cleaved, and Gav's spear finally hit something vital. Lyssa, emboldened, lobbed a fireball, weak but enough to singe a mage's robe. Yuto collapsed, gasping, the sulfur stench choking him. It worked. I'm the medieval Michael Bay. But his hygiene rage lingered. Still no clean water to wash this crap off. This world's a petri dish.
Granite-Face stormed over, his whip coiled but eyes glinting. "Mud Boy, that boom was your doing?" Yuto nodded, bracing for a lash. Instead, the sergeant grunted. "Reckless, but effective. Don't make a habit of it." Lyssa preened, her barrier's glow fading. "My shield turned the tide, Sarge!" Granite-Face snorted. "Keep it up, mage, and you might not be useless."
Mara, watching from the camp's edge, beckoned Yuto later. "Your fire-pot worked, lad, but it's crude. Saltpeter's the missing spark—check the old latrine pits, if you're mad enough." Her voice dropped, wary. "I mixed worse for that rebel lord—poisons, blasts. Got me exiled from Valthar's court. Braxium fears what it can't pray to." Yuto's brain pinged. She's got endgame lore. Bet she's my crafting NPC.
Karl's sabotage wasn't done. Yuto found his sulfur pouch slashed, half its contents gone—that bastard's playing dirty. Torren warned, "Karl's whispering you're a witch, Mud Boy. Your boom didn't help. Watch your back." The camp's filth worsened, soldiers coughing, sores spreading. Yuto's rash throbbed, his frustration peaking. No antibiotics, no plumbing. My bomb's the only clean kill here.
As night fell, the Verdant Scar pulsed green, its craters like festering wounds. Scouts reported Dominion forces regrouping, the siege engine damaged but not destroyed. Granite-Face summoned Yuto's patrol. "They're coming at dawn—mages, beasts, and that red-glow machine. Mud Boy, you're with me." Yuto's spear, repaired but shaky, felt useless. Then Karl stepped from the shadows, holding a stolen sulfur pouch, his smirk venomous. "Sarge, found this in Mud Boy's kit. Smells like Dominion sorcery." The camp froze, eyes on Yuto, Granite-Face's whip uncoiling. Yuto's brain screamed: Bro, I'm about to get canceled by a medieval snitch.