The Verdant Scar quaked as red-glowing rifts spewed Dominion horrors—hulking beasts with neon spines, claws like scythes, flanked by mages whose staves pulsed green fire. Yuto Akiyama stood on Braxium's northern rise, his steel breastplate glinting, crossbow steady, the new bomb at his belt—a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter, its fuse a ticking hope. His scrawny frame trembled under his dented helm, the camp's chaos—soldiers in crisp blue tunics, crossbows raised—drowning in the beasts' roars. The air reeked of ash, ozone, and the camp's rancid latrines, Yuto's rash burning under his tunic. His inner thoughts spiraled, panic clashing with gamer grit. These rifts are spawning endgame bosses, and I'm stuck in a witch hunt. Karl's priest pals want me torched for my bomb, but it's just chemistry. Gotta clutch this fight, then outsmart a medieval kangaroo court or I'm perma-fragged.
His hygiene rage flared—soldiers coughed with sores, the stream a plague pit, no soap despite capital gear. New armor's dope, but we're one germ from a wipe. Dominion's got demon beasts, and we're swinging swords like cavemen. His gunpowder obsession burned, Mara's musket sketch vivid. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—check. Forge a barrel, and I'm sniping mages. Gotta survive this trial to build it. Granite-Face's whip cracked, his scarred face grim. "Mud Boy, stop those beasts, or you're dead before noon!" Valthar's priests, cloaked in serpent sigils, glared, Karl's accusations fueling their zeal.
Yuto's World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, his mind channeling Hannibal's traps and Roman fortifications. The Verdant Scar's terrain was his board: a vine-choked gully west could bog the beasts; a crater field north, with green pools, could break their charge; a ridge east offered crossbow range. Funnel, pin, boom. "Torren, ridge, snipe mages! Gav, Redbeard, gully—block grunts! Lyssa, backline, don't fumble! Crossbowmen, crater field—volley low!" Yuto roared, sprinting to the gully, crossbow loaded, breastplate clanking.
Torren scaled the ridge, his rune-etched armor glinting, crossbow twanging, bolts piercing mage throats, blood spraying. His mentorship cut through, voice steady. "Mud Boy, I faced a witch hunt once—false charge, cost me a squad. Fight smart, talk smarter." His green eyes held old wounds, a bond forged in shared peril. Yuto nodded, gripping his bomb. Torren's my clutch player. Redbeard's sword clashed with grunts' axes in the gully, sparks flying, his amulet pulsing, blood seeping from his gashed arm. Gav's crossbow fired, a bolt sinking into a grunt's shoulder, his new gear steady despite his grimace. Lyssa, capelet flapping, raised her staff, her blonde hair wild. "I'll dispel their taint!" Her crystal flared blue-white, a shimmering pulse bursting outward, dimming a rift's glow, mages staggering. She tripped on a vine, gasping, but held firm, grinning. "Epic, right?"
Yuto's quip was sharp. "Glitter Queen, you're actually cracked! Keep that up!" Lyssa's blush mixed with pride, her magic sharpening despite the stumble. A beast—serpent-like, spines slashing—charged the crater field, its claws rending a crossbowman, his armor crumpling, blood pooling. Yuto's plan worked—the gully slowed grunts, the ridge pinned mages, but the beast's bulk was relentless. A green pool bubbled nearby, vines humming. Trap it. "Crossbowmen, aim legs—drive it to the pool!" Bolts flew, sinking into the beast's shins, ichor spraying. It roared, veering into the pool, vines snaring its claws, acid spit sizzling uselessly.
Mages rallied, their staves pulsing, green bolts shattering Lyssa's dispel. She fell, chanting, her crystal flaring. A barrier snapped up, blocking a bolt, saving Gav, who slashed with his dagger, nicking a grunt's throat. Yuto eyed the beast's spine-ridge, a glowing weak point. Hit that, stagger it. He lit the bomb's fuse, sparks spitting, and sprinted, dodging a mage's bolt that scorched his breastplate, heat blistering his chest. His hygiene rage spiked—no medkits, no clean water, just blood and filth. A grunt's axe grazed his arm, blood welling. He hurled the bomb, the pot arcing through smoke, lodging in the beast's spines. The explosion cracked, yellow flames bursting, the beast howling as its hide charred, collapsing into the pool, ichor gushing.
The camp surged, soldiers thrusting spears, crossbows twanging. Torren's bolts dropped mages, Redbeard's sword cleaved, Gav's dagger slashed, Lyssa's barrier held. The rifts flickered, beasts retreating, mages fleeing into the mist, their red glow dimming. Granite-Face roared, "Hold!" The Dominion broke, the Verdant Scar's craters swallowing their dead. Yuto staggered, sulfur choking him, arm bleeding, rash burning. Clutched it. Oracle of Mud strikes again.
Hours later, the camp's victory soured as Valthar's priests summoned Yuto to a trial in the command tent, its canvas walls dim under torchlight. Three priests, their serpent cloaks glinting, stood beside Granite-Face, Karl's stolen sulfur vial on a table, his allies' whispers venomous. The head priest, a gaunt man with eyes like coals, intoned, "Yuto of Mud, your 'alchemy' reeks of Dominion sorcery. Prove it false, or burn." Yuto's heart jackhammered, his inner thoughts racing. This is a rigged lobby, and I'm the noob on trial. Karl's griefed me hard—stolen sulfur, planted lies. Gotta outtalk these fanatics like Socrates, or I'm cooked.
Yuto's strategy formed, blending World Warfare 4 cunning and Cicero's courtroom flair. Discredit Karl, rally allies, demo the bomb as science. "Sarge, priests, my powder's no magic—it's fire, like a blacksmith's forge. Let me show you, outside, now." He glanced at Torren, Lyssa, and Mara, who'd slipped in, their faces tense. Torren nodded, his mentorship firm. "I stood trial once, Mud Boy—lied my way out. Speak clear, don't flinch." Lyssa clutched her staff, whispering, "I'll back you, Mud Boy." Mara's eyes burned, her rebel past echoing. "I faced these priests—Karath's fall, my fault. Show 'em your fire, lad."
The priests hesitated, but Granite-Face growled, "Do it, Mud Boy." Outside, Yuto set a stump, placing a new bomb—sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter, fuse tight. Soldiers gathered, Karl's allies glaring. Yuto's voice was steady, his gamer logic sharp. "This is alchemy, not sorcery. Watch." He lit the fuse, sparks hissing. The bomb cracked, flames bursting, the stump splintering. Soldiers gasped, priests frowning. Yuto pressed, "Dominion mages use staves, chants—my powder's just earth, mixed right. Karl stole my sulfur, framed me. Check his gear—he's the traitor."
Torren stepped up, holding Karl's ash-marked boots from Yuto's trap. "Found these in his tent, Sarge. Mud Boy's clean." Lyssa's staff flared, a light spell illuminating the boots, her confidence glowing despite a stumble. Mara added, "I crafted such for Karath—burned armies, no magic. Yuto's like me, not Dominion." The priests wavered, Granite-Face's whip twitching. The head priest snarled, "We'll judge later. War calls."
Yuto's musket dream burned, Mara's iron scraps ready. "Smelt these, lad," she'd said, her voice low. "I forged for rebels, dodged priests. Your gun'll break their dogma." Her past—outlawed alchemist, hunted for defying Valthar—mirrored Yuto's fight. 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. Lyssa, bandaging Gav, shone, her spells earning Redbeard's grunt. "Not bad, lass." Gav smirked, "She's less fumble now."
As dusk fell, the Verdant Scar pulsed green, craters festering. A scout's cry pierced the calm: "Dominion's rallying—north, a new rift! Bigger, with mage-lords!" The ground shook, red-glow eyes gleaming, a cloaked figure atop a beast, staff blazing. Granite-Face's eyes locked on Yuto, whip raised. "Mud Boy, your trial's on hold. Stop that rift, or we burn you anyway." Yuto's brain froze. Mage-lords? That's a DLC boss, and I'm still on trial.