Aaron Graves balanced a half-painted knight miniature in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb stabbing at the screen with righteous fury.
"You absolute lorelet. The Order of St. Methodius Alpha predates the Synodic Schism by at least three canonical cycles. Just because the new artist drew their masks differently doesn't mean it's 'non-lore.' Pick up a reliquary and read sometime."
Send.
His fingers trembled with the thrill of the argument. Somewhere out there, in the unholy forum thread titled Trench Crusade: Fan Lore Dump V11, a guy named "EschatonEdgeX" was preparing his response. Aaron could already feel it—condescension wrapped in bad grammar. He snorted, set his phone down, and went back to carefully brushing silver dry highlights onto the chest plate of his Saint-Purifier of the Tenth Flame.
The little figurine gleamed under his desklamp, its tiny flamer raised, its armor half-weathered with rust pigment. The details were immaculate: purity seals flowing like paper flames, eyes like burning coals. It was one of his best works yet.
He breathed out through his nose. His apartment smelled of enamel thinner, instant noodles, and a slow leak of natural gas he hadn't noticed until this morning.
Behind him, the stovetop hissed softly. He hadn't finished tightening the replacement valve after heating up leftovers. Too many thoughts in his head—custom paint mixes, lore inconsistencies, and the fact that someone dared suggest the Cavalcade of the Tenth Plague were a fanon creation.
The heresy.
Ping.
EschatonEdgeX replied:
"lol bro u act like u wrote the lore yourself. it's all made-up anyway. methodius alpha isn't real. cope."
Aaron stood.
Not just from his chair, but in moral indignation. The kind that transcends keyboards and becomes kinetic. He paced toward the tiny kitchenette, muttering curses, hands gesturing like he was presenting a thesis.
"Not real? Not real? The entire Trench Crusade is literally built on scattered prophecies. The contradictions are intentional. It's all about mythos fragmentation. That's the entire point, you JPEG-brained troglodyte."
He slapped the counter, then opened the valve to check if he'd fixed the seal. A tiny blue flicker greeted him.
Aaron didn't even have time to scream.
The fireball consumed his apartment in seconds. Gas met spark; spark met open flame. Heat surged like the wrath of a saint denied a martyrdom. The explosion blasted through drywall and hobby shelves alike, flinging bits of The Iron Sultanate's Paladin-Walkers across the room like confetti.
Aaron was at the center of it all, arms outstretched like a crucified wargamer, engulfed in holy flame.
And then—
Nothing.
Darkness.
No sensation. No heat. No pain. Just… weightless black. As if he had slipped between the seams of the world. Floating, drifting, naked in thought. For a moment, Aaron was convinced this was it—oblivion. Then, like oil dripping into water, sound returned.
Chanting.
Low, gravel-throated, like men who had not known clean air in decades.
"Blessed is the flame. Holy is the smoke. Consecrate the flesh. March unto ruin."
He gasped.
Air flooded into lungs that didn't feel like his own. His eyes snapped open.
Gray sky. Blood-colored clouds. The stench of rot and iron. His body lay crumpled in the mud of a deep trench, soaked through and clinging to a strange uniform that looked like a WWI-era crusader cosplay—brass buttons, a stiff woolen coat with a red cross stitched over the heart, and a strange metal respirator dangling at his side.
Everything felt too real.
The cold. The weight. The pressure in his head.
"Wh—what the hell…"
A figure loomed over him. Masked, robed, and wrapped in chains of scripture. Smoke coiled from censers on his belt.
"You awaken," the figure intoned. "The fire has marked you."
Aaron blinked. "What?"
More figures approached. A column of soldiers in piecemeal armor trudging through the trench, faces hidden behind gas masks, relics clutched like lifelines. One dropped to his knees beside Aaron and pressed a gloved hand to his chest.
"He lives! The Ember-Ward said he would rise!"
"Is he the one?" asked another. "The Saint-Flame?"
"He burned in holy fire," said the first. "And rose without ash. He is the prophecy."
Aaron sat up, squinting through muck and smoke. "No, no—wait. This is wrong. This is… This is Trench Crusade. This is a fan setting. This isn't real. I was—"
"Silence, prophet," said the masked man, reverently.
Prophet?
Another soldier held up a warped relic—a bronze Aquila melted into a shape that resembled a two-headed saint, its arms raised in agony. They pressed it to Aaron's forehead. It burned but didn't blister.
"He is blessed," whispered someone.
Aaron swatted the hand away and tried to stand, only to fall back into the mud. "No. This is a dream. I was painting. I was fighting online. I was—"
"Consuming scripture of the sacred war?" asked the relic-bearer. "The God-Head speaks through fire and written word. You are twice-touched."
A booming horn sounded in the distance—long and low, like a dying cathedral bell. All heads turned.
"The heretics march again," said a voice.
Aaron looked up. Over the trench wall, across no-man's-land, he saw shadows moving—massive, lumbering silhouettes wreathed in smoke and flame. Banners fluttered in the toxic wind. Symbols he recognized—The Swine, a faction of chaos-mutated beastmen obsessed with filth and entropy.
And yet... it wasn't fan art anymore.
It was real.
Aaron's stomach turned.
"You absolute lorelet."
The words echoed in his mind like a curse. Had he actually... lore-nerded himself into another reality?
A soldier handed him a weapon—a rusted rifle inscribed with script he didn't understand but felt. It buzzed in his hands like it recognized him.
"You will walk," the soldier said. "The Saint-Born marches with us. Let the enemy witness."
Aaron looked at the rifle, then at the pilgrims, then at the oncoming storm of flesh and iron. He swallowed.
"…You've got to be f**king kidding me."
And then the trench trembled with the sound of war.