From the Eastern Blightlands, a storm of filth began to rise—visible not in clouds, but in swarms of flies, coughing winds, and skies choked with ash and mildew.
They came by the thousands.
Orcish warbands, their armor crusted with bone scum and rotted leather, led the charge, roaring through broken borders on plague-infused beasts.
Behind them marched feral humans, their skin caked in mud, oil, and spiritual disease—carriers of curse-pox and grave-fever.
At the center slithered the Puskin, a goblin splinter clan who had long since abandoned language for snarls, and soap for rot rituals. Their breath alone could turn crops gray.
Their war cry echoed like a curse across the continent:
"WE ROT, THEREFORE WE RULE!"
The Continent Braces for Impact
The horde's spread wasn't just physical—it was metaphysical. Towns fell, not only to weapons, but to despair. Clean wells turned to sludge. Templars broke out in boils mid-prayer. Children wept mud.
News spread like wildfire—not of the horde, but of hope.
Whispers of a man from another world, wielding not blade nor flame, but sanitation.
A man who defeated the Filth God with nothing but spells and soap.
Word Reaches the Nonhuman Realms
In the north, the Elven Glades of Tel'syaria heard of Kazuki's legend. While many high elves scoffed, one forest-born noble, Lady Elaria Moonpetal, whispered:
"Cleanliness… could be harmony."
In the depths of Ironbreach Hold, the dwarves of Clan Soapbeard roared with laughter and pride.
"We said it first, didn't we? SANITATION IS SALVATION!"
They sent Grum Steelfoam, engineer-priest, to aid the saint.
Far to the south, in the obsidian spires of Kar'Zaruun, demon scholars debated.
Some mocked Kazuki. Others feared his growing myth.
And one—K'taal, a demoness and sanitation priestess of the ancient cleansing flame—packed her satchel and began the long walk north.
"If the humans have birthed a saint," she murmured, "I must see what soap made him holy."
Refugees Speak His Name
In villages on the fringe of the conflict, refugees from Mireholt and Blackspire recounted the miracle.
"He burned a god clean off the earth," said one.
"He purified an entire city in a single spell," said another.
"He invented a mop that talks to you if you skip the corners," whispered a child.
Everywhere, people repeated a single name:
"Saint Kazuki."
Not as a joke.
Not as irony.
But as a prayer.
Kazuki, Hearing the Rumors
Far from the frontlines, Kazuki stood in a newly built sanitation outpost, carefully calibrating a rune for anti-mold deployment.
He heard the cries in the distance. The reports. The panic.
He put down the mop.
Picked up the Holy Pressure Washer.
And calmly said:
"Then it's time to clean up another mess."