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.