"Does anyone have any fire-oil?"

Finn blurted it out without even thinking—only to realize too late that the word probably didn't exist here…or meant something completely different from how it sounded. Both would've surprise him.

Once again the archers just stared at him, confused. Some even glanced at each other, silently asking if anyone knew what the hell he was talking about.

Facepalming out of sheer disappointment in himself, Finn dragged his hand down his face. "Idiot…" he muttered under his breath.

"Do you guys have fire?! Torches—stuff that burns! Things that ignite and make stuff bright!" He flung his arms out dramatically.

One archer tilted his head. "Do you mean… fire? Like applying fire to our arrows?"

"Ah—yes, exactly that!" Finn shouted, gesturing wildly at the man.

"Then why didn't you just say that?" another archer called out.

"You shut your mouth!" Finn snapped, shaking his fist. "Now—do any of you have any fire whatsoever?!"

The archers checked themselves, patted down gear, and exchanged looks. But in the end, the answer Finn dreaded came out:

"No. We don't have anything."

His tired little heart shattered into a million pieces more. Groaning in frustration, Finn's eyes darted around frantically for anything that could ignite fire—until they landed on the mages preparing the giant spell.

Without wasting a second, Finn rushed over, grabbed one of the mages, and dragged him straight back in front of the archers.

Gripping the mage by the shoulders, Finn stared dead into his eyes.

"I need you."

The mage's brown eyes widened in disbelief at Finn's words. He scratched nervously at the stubble on his chin.

"Are… are you sure you want me..?"

Realizing what he'd just said, Finn threw his head back with a dramatic sigh, then snapped his gaze back down at the man. "DO YOU HAVE ANY FIRE ELEMENTS TO TURN THESE ARROWS INTO FIRE?!" he roared, spraying the poor guy with spit.

The mage blinked, recoiling. Slowly, cautiously, he shook his head, terror creeping onto his face. "I… I don't have any fire-based attacks…"

"You don't..?" Finn repeated, narrowing his eyes.

The mage shook his head again, more frantic this time. "No, I don't—"

Smack!

The sound rang out across the battlefield. Finn had slapped him across the face without hesitation, leaving the mage clutching his cheek in shock.

"You do have a fire spell," Finn growled, glaring at him with pure annoyance. "Do not lie to me."

"Okay, okay, okay—I'll do it now!" the mage yelped, raising both hands in surrender.

"That's what I thought!" Finn barked, crossing his arms triumphantly. "All of you people should at least have one fire spell. What kind of fantasy world is this?!"

Reluctantly, the mage shuffled toward the archers, sliding his staff to the side before holding out a shaky hand. Finn loomed close, watching every twitch like a hawk.

The mage glanced back nervously. Taking one of the archer's arrows, he muttered, "You… you don't have to watch me, you know…"

"Oh no," Finn said, eyes wide and unblinking. "I have to watch you. This is for my own safety." He leaned in, practically breathing down the man's neck.

The mage's hand trembled as he whispered something under his breath. A pathetic little flame sputtered to life in his palm—tiny, flickering, barely bigger than a candle. He inched it toward the arrow.

Finn squinted. "…What the hell kind of fire is that?"

"It's all I can do!" the mage snapped, face burning red. "That's why I said I don't have fire abilities!"

Finn crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Okay, does that matter? You still made fire. Fire is fire. Besides, you've got the perfect amount for this job anyway."

The mage lit the arrow, sneaking a glance back at Finn. "…You think so?"

"YES! NOW KEEP DOING YOUR JOB AND STOP WASTING TIME!" Finn bellowed, waving his arms like a lunatic.

"Okay, okay!" the mage yelped, fumbling for the next arrow.

The mage moved like molasses, lighting arrows one by one while the battlefield bled men and momentum. Finn's patience evaporated. Every second counted. The fire was fine — but slow.

He shoved an archer closer to the mage and barked orders. "Line them up! Set them together — we'll light a bunch at once!"

God, he wished that he actually had a fire spell. Tripping was useful, sure, but flashy pyromancy would've been so much cooler.

At last the mage finished. Dozens of arrows hissed with tiny tongues of flame. The archers looked like a war-chorus waiting to sing. Finn did a quick sweep: bows ready, quivers full, faces set.

"Good," he said, turning to the mage. "Now go — help your buddies with the big spell."

The mage darted off, staff tucked under his arm, already rushing back to the circle of casters.

Finn planted his hands on his hips and beamed at the archers. The sight was cinematic: flaming shafts poised against the gray sky. He clapped once. "Okay! Formation time. When I say 'fire,' you release everything. Understood?"

They fell into a tidy line. Finn's chest filled for a ridiculous second with a leader's swagger — until his brain reminded him this was Finn Wiggles, not some hardened captain.

"No — not like that." He waved his arms frantically. "I have a better formation. Trust me. This one will get everyone's attention and do way more damage."

An archer frowned. "This should draw attention already."

"Mine will draw the attention," Finn insisted. "And it'll look cool. That matters. Very important."

They exchanged glances, then shrugged. If Finn wanted a weird formation, fine. The archers shifted themselves into his strange, confident pattern, and Finn, triumphant and a little terrified, readied to be the most ridiculous ringmaster the battlefield had ever seen.

Doing a quick 180, Finn spun back toward the battlefield—and immediately wished he hadn't. The horde was pressing in hard, squirming closer by the second. Not far now. Too close.

Sweat slid down his face as he swallowed hard. Damn it, we wasted too much time… but it's not over yet.

He sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and spun back to the archers. They needed one last detail. The most important one.

"Listen up! When you fire, I don't want silence. I want your lungs ripping out of your throats! Scream what's in your hearts, your souls, your… pants if you gotta!" He smacked his chest for emphasis. "Say whatever you crave! Stuff like—'I LOVE BIG-BREASTED ELF GIRLS!' Or 'I WANNA REST MY HEAD ON A GIRL'S ASS!' Hell, even just, 'I WANNA GO HOME AND RELAX!' Whatever it is—shout it! Make it raw!"

The archers glanced at each other nervously. No one wanted to be the first lunatic. Until—

"I WANT TO SEE MY HUSBAND NAKED IN THE BEDROOM WAITING FOR ME!" a woman suddenly screamed.

Every other archer—especially the women—stared at her, jaws slack.

Finn threw both arms in the air. "YES! THAT'S THE SPIRIT!"

Another voice rose, a man's this time: "I WANT TO WATCH PEOPLE IN THE BATHROOM!"

Finn froze. Blinked. Tilted his head. "…Okay, uh, questionable, but YES, SURE, THAT TOO!" He pointed at the guy like a hype-man in a rap battle. "LET IT OUT!"

The line of archers started laughing, shouting, confessing, their voices rising over the chaos. Finn's insane plan was working.

He turned back to the battlefield, pulse racing. It was time.

***

"Bows drawn! Arrows to the sky!" Finn bellowed, pacing like a deranged drill sergeant. "Minds sharp, fingers curled, hearts pounding like the drums of war! Let me hear your screams—let the rain of hell fall upon these slimy nightmares!"

Strings creaked. Firelight glowed on arrowheads. The archers focused, every breath steady, every eye locked forward. For the hundredth time, they would drag the battle back from the brink.

Finn inhaled deep, filling his lungs, then roared with every ounce of his voice:

"FIRST LINE—FIRE!"

A storm of arrows hissed skyward, bowstrings snapping like thunder.

"SECOND LINE—DOUBLE BALLS—FIRE!"

Another volley tore loose, streaks of flame ripping across the sky. The burning shafts rose together like a flock of phoenixes, their wings of fire blotting out the clouds, before plunging back down to burn the horde to ash.

And with that, the archers screamed:

"I LOVE HAIRY MEN!"

"I WANT TO SEE MY KIDS!"

"I JERK OFF ON MY ROOF!"

"I WANT A LUST DEMON TO SPOIL ME ROTTEN!"

"I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED!"

Their voices collided into a storm of raw desperation, lust, and questionable confessions. The cries echoed across the battlefield, reaching the ears of knights, adventurers, priests, mages, alike. Even the slimy nightmares themselves.

Heads turned. Fighters paused mid-swing, brows furrowed, lips muttering: What the hell did they just say? Others clenched their teeth, trying to block out the chaos and focus on the horde.

But then—every pair of eyes snapped skyward.

Because what followed their cries was not just sound. It was fire. Dozens of blazing arrows rained down from the heavens, the sky itself streaked with light like a divine tantrum. The shocking words may have captured attention—

but the fire was about to consume it.

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