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.