WIN FIRST — route the banner. Gates do arithmetic on living men, and your soldiers keep their names, their levels, their graves.

Serpents thread a lava maze and grow while they live. Their coil is your reward, your blindness and your clock — so the whole game is when you pull the trigger.

The fort always falls — the muster bell decides what the fall buys. Everyone you save is a rifle in the column that marches the coast back.

Two fates a turn, both previewed honestly. Absorb what joins you, kill what you outnumber — the threat is the bounty — and mind the order. The dice were always theater.

The front is a line in the snow and it moves for whoever earns it. Your army arrives by train, on a timetable you can read — and so does theirs.

First-person turret against the horde. The body count IS the game — milestone by absurd milestone.

The last hospital's door gun. Medics run stretchers through your kill lanes; the score is who you carry in, and the wall remembers every name you couldn't.