While the rest of humanity holds the line and calls it survival, we go down. Into the breach, into the dark, into the wet heart of the Scourge — and we burn it where it lives. The Wardens watch their walls and count the generations they've bought. We count the nodes we've cut. That's the difference between us: they outlast the rot, we make it bleed for every world it takes.
We're cells, not chains of command. No generals to lose, no orders to wait on. A Purger's life is fuel — spend it gladly, sever one more repeater, send the local horde feral before the Choir can stitch it back together. Starve what it feeds on. Kill what keeps it whole. Walk out the way you came in, or don't walk out at all.
The Choir fears exactly one thing: us, close enough to burn the source.
