The battlefield was a furnace.
Ash curled in the air like falling scripture. The trench walls shook under the pressure of fire and faith. Gunfire snapped like punctuation in a war-prayer written in blood and flame.
And at the center of it all—
Father-Commander Dren and the Butcher.
The brute towered, its flayed flesh wrapped in charred scrolls, its cleaver ringing with psalmic dissonance. Every breath it took whined like a broken choir pipe—a sound that made the trenches feel smaller.
But Dren did not hesitate.
He advanced with burning eyes and relic-spear in hand, chanting a battle-liturgy that made the air itself weep.
Father-Commander Dren moved like a living scripture—his cloak of war-flame trailing behind him, his relic spear aglow with hymn-light, a psalm of wrath thundering from his throat.
"By the Seared Hands of Saint Karst!
By the Nails of the Ninefold Martyrs!
I cast you down, Beast Unnamed!"
Each word struck like thunder. Each verse carried not just sound, but heat, waves of spiritual force that scorched the trench walls and caused even the corrupted banners carried by the enemy to flicker.
The towering brute, wrapped in martyr-flesh, its cleaver dragging sparks across the bones of the earth, took a half-step back.
Then Dren leapt.
His spear struck, and the relic-tip bit deep into the beast's side. There was no blood, only a sound, a ruptured bell, and a pulse of warped scripture that made the dirt ripple.
Aaron watched, stunned.
He'd seen Trench Crusade animations before, official short films, fan edits on YouTube, that one 40-minute lore drop with still frames and gritty voiceovers.
But nothing, nothing—could touch this.
The way Dren moved, not like a man, but like a weapon made out of wrath and ritual.
His voice was a storm of verses, his body wrapped in light. Every clash sent out waves of dust and prayer. Each block and parry was framed like divine choreography. When the spear clanged against the Butcher's cleaver, the sky cracked with relic resonance.
Aleric was beside Aaron, mouthing every word of the litany in awe.
Even Trenaxa, iron-hearted and battle-hardened, stood with her head slightly bowed.
Dren drove the spear through the creature's shoulder, pinning it against a trench pillar. With a roar, he swung back and ignited his cloak, setting his own robes ablaze as he shouted:
"The Word is FIRE! The Word is FLESH!"
Around him, soldiers began to cheer.
Then pray.
Dozens of voices rose across the trenches.
Psalm-throats opened, devout mouths bleeding as they screamed litanies of victory. A chorus of trench warriors bellowed in rhythm:
"SAINTS GUIDE DREN!"
"FLAME THROUGH THE FOUL!"
"BURN THE BLASPHEMY!"
Scribes dropped to their knees, voxes chanted Dren's name, and a choral wave swept through the Hinge.
Aaron turned slowly, realizing what was happening.
And what it meant.
The Butcher smiled.
That horrible, lipless grin beneath its bone-hood widened.
Its body, bleeding warped light, shuddered, then snapped into speed.
Where once it moved like a cathedral crumbling, now it surged like a bullet made of meat.
It brought its cleaver down. Dren blocked, barely—and was sent skidding backward, boots carving trenches in the mud.
Aaron's breath caught.
"That's… not possible…"
But he already knew.
Because he remembered.
He had read this once, years ago.
He whispered it now:
"Red Choir Butcher."
The name sent a chill down his spine.
They feed on faith.
On hymns. On psalms. On the sound of holy belief made real.
They drink it. It makes them strong. Fast. Beautiful in violence.
And the trenches were singing.
Singing louder.
Praying with every ounce of faith they had.
Aaron looked around in horror. "They're feeding him."
Aleric blinked. "What?"
"THEY'RE FEEDING HIM!" Aaron shouted. "He grows stronger with prayer! He wants us to believe!"
"It's a Red Choir Butcher. It feeds on hymn. On faith sung aloud."
No one heard.
Not over the rising hymn.
Not over the roar of artillery, the thunder of relic mortars, the shrieks of battle-command.
The Sermon Caster was blaring Dren's litany in full force. Choirs were harmonizing. Soldiers were weeping with joy.
And the Butcher was glowing.
Dren pressed the attack.
But he was slowing.
Sweat poured from his brow. His spear strikes grew heavier, less sharp.
He spun and drove the tip into the Butcher's side again—but the wound closed before he could pull back.
The Butcher brought its cleaver down.
Dren blocked.
Barely.
He grunted in pain.
The blade had kissed his pauldron and ripped through a foot of relic-metal like it was parchment.
Aaron stumbled to the nearest vox-station, shoving past an acolyte.
The vox-bone buzzed with fervent prayer, white-hot.
He grabbed it, tried to force the chant off, but it was encoded. The relic's lips continued to speak, independent of his efforts.
"...And the spear shall not falter… and the song shall burn the beast…"
Stop. STOP. He's not faltering because he's weak, he's faltering because we're giving the Butcher a feast!
Aaron dropped the vox and sprinted toward Trenaxa, who was already issuing command-fire lines from the rear trench.
"YOU HAVE TO MAKE THEM STOP!" he screamed.
She turned, face confused. "What are you talking about?!"
"The Butcher—it's a Red Choir Butcher! It feeds on sound! On faith! Every psalm we scream is making it stronger!"
She stared at him, then at the glowing monster down in the trench.
It was glowing now.
Like relics do.
Except inverted. Mocking.
Trenaxa's eyes narrowed.
"Then we're already too loud."
"No! We still have a chance, cut the chants, now! Shut down the Sermon Casters!"
"I can't overrule a full vox cycle—"
"Then override it manually!"
Trenaxa turned to Aleric. "Go. Shut the Caster. Use your status seal if you have to."
The boy paled. "I'll be flayed for heresy!"
"I'll flay you myself if you don't run," Trenaxa said.
Aleric sprinted off.
Back at the front, Dren grunted with effort as the Butcher bore down.
Spear met cleaver in a dozen screaming clashes.
The Butcher now moved in blurs. His cleaver tore through flame-walls, split banners, knocked relic guards from their feet with the force of his presence.
Dren tried to press forward.
He recited the Sixth Benediction, his spear catching the brute's thigh.
"I am the edge of God's will!"
The Butcher howled—but now it sounded like laughter.
He spun.
His cleaver carved through air—and struck Dren's shoulder pauldron, shattering steel and bone.
Dren staggered, bleeding heavily.
The brute laughed.
Not a man's laugh.
A choir's laugh. Multi-tonal. Echoed.
Mocking.
Dren stabbed forward—connected.
But the blade skittered off.
No damage.
The Butcher raised its cleaver again.
This time—Dren didn't dodge fast enough.
The blade came down.
Dren raised his spear.
He shouted:
"Saint Basriel—guide my—"
CRACK.
And cleaved his left arm.
Clean through the pauldron, into the joint, tearing fabric, bone, and relic metal.
The spear clattered to the ground.
The hymns faltered.
Aaron froze.
He saw the blood. The way Dren staggered, one arm hanging useless, the other grasping the wound.
The Butcher raised its cleaver again.
And locked eyes with Aaron.
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Who Could Beat the Red Choir Butcher?
🥇Saint-Captain Hema✅ Unkillable, silent, fights with the dead.
🥈High Cruciger Lueth⚖️Could win with knowledge/prep.
🥉Father-Commander Dren❌Too zealous. Feeds the hymn.
🥄Confessor-General Holwen❌Faith through sound = bad match.