Lieutenant’s Burden

The Verdant Scar's eastern ridge glowed red as the flickering rift pulsed, a lone Dominion mage-lord chanting atop a tainted wyrm-beast, its neon spines glinting, lesser beasts snarling at its flanks. Yuto Akiyama stood in Braxium's battered main camp, his steel breastplate dented, crossbow slung, his bomb—a clay pot packed with Mara's sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter—ready at his belt. The air reeked of ash, ozone, and the camp's rancid latrines, his rash burning under his crisp blue tunic, his dented helm slipping. His inner thoughts churned, guilt and fear clashing with resolve. This ain't World Warfare 4—Torren, Redbeard, gone. I'm no commander, just a nerd, but Lyssa, Gav, Mara—they're counting on me. Screw this up, and their blood's on my hands. No game overs, just graves.

His hygiene rage flared—soldiers coughed with sores, the stream a plague pit, no soap despite capital gear. New crossbows, no bandages? One cut, and I'm septic. His gunpowder obsession burned, Mara's musket sketch vivid. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter—check. Forge a barrel, and I'm sniping these freaks. Gotta keep my squad alive first. Granite-Face summoned Yuto to the command tent, his whip coiled, scarred face grim but oddly approving. "Mud Boy, your booms saved us. You're Lieutenant of the Verdant Vanguard now—mid-rank, not grunt. Take a forward camp, east ridge, 50 men. Fortify it, hold it against stragglers. Don't fumble." Yuto's jaw dropped, his thoughts reeling. Lieutenant? Me? I'm a D-tier gamer, not Patton. Torren'd laugh, but he's… gone. I can't let Lyssa, Gav, Mara down.

Lyssa, Gav, and Mara were assigned to his command, their faces mixed with pride and grief for Torren and Redbeard. The peaceful period, earned by the Dominion's retreat, offered time to rebuild, but the rift's flicker loomed. Yuto's new camp—a cluster of tents, crude palisades, and capital-supplied crossbows and armor—sat on the eastern ridge, overlooking glowing craters. His task: fortify it, monitor rifts, survive. His World Warfare 4 instincts kicked in, channeling Vauban's star forts and guerrilla ambushes. Perimeter, traps, choke points—let's build a fortress. His inner dialogue hardened. This is real. Every call I make, lives are on the line. I'm no hero, but I'll fake it till we're safe.

As Yuto's squad—Lyssa, Gav, Mara, and 50 soldiers—marched to the camp, the rift flared, the mage-lord charging with beasts, their claws rending earth, green bolts lancing. Yuto's plan snapped into place: a gully south, vine-choked, could slow beasts; a crater field east could bog the wyrm; a ridge north offered crossbow range. "Gav, gully—block beasts! Lyssa, backline—shield up! Crossbowmen, ridge—volley mages! I'm at the crater field!" Yuto roared, sprinting east, crossbow loaded, breastplate clanking. His thoughts raced. No Torren to snipe, no Redbeard to tank. I'm the shot-caller now, and I'm terrified.

Gav, his weasel face stoic, fired crossbow bolts into the gully, piercing a beast's flank, his limp slowing him but grit unyielding. "For Redbeard," he muttered, blood staining his new armor. Lyssa, capelet flapping, raised her staff, her blonde hair wild. "I'll hold 'em, Lieutenant!" Her crystal flared blue-white, a massive barrier snapping up, deflecting a mage-lord's bolt with a crack. She tripped on a root, gasping, but stood tall, grinning. "Epic, right?" Yuto's quip was strained, grief-tinged. "Glitter Queen, you're carrying! Don't drop it!" Lyssa's eyes burned, Torren's loss fueling her. "I won't fail 'em," she whispered, her magic sharper, leadership budding despite the stumble.

The wyrm-beast charged the crater field, its acid spit sizzling a soldier's armor, his scream cut short. Mara, at Yuto's side, tossed him a new bomb, her wiry frame tense. "Hit the wyrm's chest, lad—glowing spot. I burned Dominion with less for Karath, lost my kin for it. Your gun'll end this war, but keep your squad tight." Her rebel past—hunted alchemist, Karath's fall—mirrored Yuto's fight, her grief for Redbeard raw. Yuto nodded, his thoughts heavy. Mara's my crafting god-tier. Torren'd say 'don't choke.' I won't.

Yuto's plan worked—the gully slowed beasts, the ridge pinned the mage-lord, but the wyrm's speed was lethal. A green pool bubbled nearby, vines humming. Bog it. "Crossbowmen, aim legs—drive it to the pool!" Bolts flew, sinking into the wyrm's shins, ichor spraying. It veered, claws snaring in vines. The mage-lord's staff pulsed, green waves shattering Lyssa's barrier. She fell, chanting, her crystal flaring. A dispel pulse shot forth, dimming the rift, the mage-lord staggering. "Take that, filth!" she shouted, catching herself mid-trip. Yuto's heart lifted. She's Torren's fire now.

Yuto eyed the wyrm's chest, a glowing weak point. Hit that, drop it. He lit the bomb's fuse, sparks spitting, and sprinted, dodging a mage-lord's bolt that scorched his breastplate, heat blistering his chest. His hygiene rage spiked—no medkits, no clean water, just filth and death. A beast's claw grazed his arm, blood welling. His inner dialogue surged. This is no game—Lyssa's shaking, Gav's bleeding. I'm Lieutenant, and they're my people. No more deaths. He hurled the bomb, the pot arcing through smoke, lodging in the wyrm's chest. The explosion cracked, yellow flames bursting, the beast collapsing, ichor flooding the pool. The mage-lord fled, the rift closing, beasts scattering.

The camp surged, crossbows twanging, spears thrusting. Gav's dagger slashed, Lyssa's barrier flickered back, blocking a bolt. The Verdant Scar swallowed the dead, Yuto's camp holding. He staggered, sulfur choking him, arm bleeding, rash burning. His thoughts were grim. We won, but I'm no hero. Torren, Redbeard—they'd have done better. I'm leading for them now.

Scouts confirmed the Dominion's retreat—rifts sealed, forces gone, overstretched by Fort Kren's fall. The peaceful period settled, Yuto's camp fortifying with trenches, stakes, and Mara's alchemical traps. Lyssa, bandaging Gav, stood taller, her spells earning soldiers' nods. "We held, Lieutenant," she said, tripping but steadying, her grief for Torren shaping resolve. Gav, grim, nodded. "For Redbeard, we keep fighting." Mara handed Yuto a forged iron tube—musket barrel prototype. "Smelted it, lad. Like Karath's war-fire, it'll break 'em. Don't let their deaths be for nothing." Yuto's chest tightened. I'm no commander, but I'll protect them.

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. As he planned sanitation ditches, a scout's cry broke the dusk: "Craters glowing—something's buried! Runes, not Dominion!" A green pulse flared, ancient stones humming, Valthar's priests whispering of "old magic." Yuto's brain froze, his inner dialogue grim. Peace my ass—something's waking, and I'm stuck leading this mess.