The scream came just before dawn.
It started low, almost a rumble, and rose like a cathedral collapsing in slow motion. Aaron had never heard anything like it, not even in soundpacks or horror games. It wasn't human. It wasn't animal, either. It sounded like hunger itself, dragged through a dying throat.
Then came the second scream. Louder. Closer.
Then a horn.
A long, blaring BOOOOOOOOOOOOORHHHHHHHH, like someone trying to play a warhorn through a mouthful of meat and bile.
The trench erupted into motion.
Boots hit mud. Bells were rung. A monk-soldier swung a smoking censer in a wide arc, crying out, "Swine at the south line! Swine in the fog! May the God-Head sear their flesh!"
Aaron scrambled to his feet, the weight of his rifle nearly throwing him backward. His stomach was still full of regret-meat, and his hands trembled around the bolt-action grip.
Sister Trenaxa appeared beside him, already masked and armed. Her robes fluttered behind her like torn scripture.
"They're testing our holy ground," she hissed. "They know this trench bleeds."
"I—I don't have any training," Aaron stammered. "I don't even know how to reload this thing—"
"You're the Saint-Born. That's supposed to be enough."
"That's very encouraging."
"Stand behind me. Shoot when I say."
The fog split.
They came like pigs on two legs, some in flayed crusader armor, others nude and raw, their skin slick and pink as newborns. Swine snouts gasped for air. Tusks glistened. They wielded butcher's cleavers, rusted rifles, jagged lengths of pipe.
But worst of all—some were singing.
Off-key, warbled hymns, distorted versions of crusader chants.
Aaron's stomach turned.
Swine doctrine: "Echo and defile."
They mimic divine liturgy to mock it. Lore says they believe the world's original language was squealing.
It had been a meme in the forums.
Now it was marching toward him, chanting "BLESS THE ROT, BLESS THE ROT, BLESS THE ROT" in three tones too many.
Sister Trenaxa raised her relic rifle and shouted, "Hold the line! Let their blood write scripture!"
And then it began.
The first volley cracked through the fog, blessed bullets punching holes in the advancing mutants. Two Swine fell, tusks shattering against trench walls. But more came. Dozens.
A crusader beside Aaron screamed as a jagged hook tore into his shoulder. He fell, gurgling.
Aaron's breath caught in his throat.
A Swine was in the trench. Right there. Eyes like polished stones, nose twitching. It grinned, and charged.
He raised his rifle, closed one eye, and fired.
The bolt hit the Swine's shoulder, but it kept coming. Aaron tried to chamber another round and fumbled.
Then came the bayonet.
Not his. Hers.
Trenaxa slammed her rifle forward, impaling the Swine through its lower jaw. It gurgled, squealed, and twitched before sliding off the blade.
She turned to him.
"Pull your weight, prophet."
"I'm trying not to die!"
"Good. The God-Head favors the fearful. They scream the best prayers."
The Swine swarmed like mud-wasps, wriggling over the parapet and dropping into the trench in clumps. Blades met relic steel. Incense burned to mask the rot. Aaron found himself ducking, jabbing, shooting at shapes too close to think about.
He screamed. More than once.
But somehow—he lived.
He remembered something mid-fight: a piece of fan lore he'd dismissed as fake.
"Swine can't stand bells tuned to D-flat. Causes internal tremors due to corrupted inner ear growth."
He turned, spotted a relic-bearer with a bellstaff, and screamed, "RING IN D-FLAT! D-FLAT, DAMN IT!"
The man obeyed—because why wouldn't he? The Saint-Born commands.
The bell tolled.
Four Swine within range seized, convulsed, and collapsed with black foam bubbling from their snouts.
Aaron stared.
It worked.
It worked.
The lore is real.
The lore is true.
They held the trench.
Barely.
By sunrise, the mud was thick with blood and pork-colored corpses. Crusaders limped through the wreckage, dragging wounded brothers out of the mire, whispering thanks to saints whose names Aaron had only read on dusty lore sheets.
He stood against the trench wall, shaking, face smeared with soot and gore. His rifle clattered to the ground.
Sister Trenaxa approached, removing her mask.
Her face was sharp. Tired. She studied him like a puzzle.
"You gave an order that saved a line."
"I remembered a meme," he said, voice distant. "A meme about D-flat frequencies and mutated cochleas. It was supposed to be a joke."
"Then the joke was prophecy."
She nodded once. "Welcome to the war, Saint Graves."