The Great Unknown Plow: A Filthy Little Gospel of Chaos Legion
Nobody in Praetoria talks about the shrine out loud.
They talk around it. They joke sideways. They cough into their fist and change the subject when someone says “plow” with too much confidence.
But the Chaos Legion? They don’t do subtle. They do loud, wrong, and way too many copies.
So of course they built a religion around it.
Deep in the underlevels of the Citadel—where the air tastes like ink, sweat, and questionable decisions—there sits a relic on a cracked altar stone, oiled and polished like it’s seen more “devotion” than any holy object has a right to see.
They call it The Great Unknown Plow.
Not because it’s mysterious—though it is. Not because it’s sacred—though they insist it is. But because when you’re the punchline of every market chart and the answer to every “why is this so cheap?” question, you either collapse into shame or you crown your shame and parade it through the streets.
The Chaos Legion chose option two, obviously.
They kneel before the Plow with the solemnity of drunks swearing they’re done drinking after just one more. They chant prayers with the reverence of gamblers kissing dice. They light candles that smell suspiciously like “limited edition” hype and regret.
And every prayer is the same:
“Plow, tell us the story again.
Plow, remind us how we got so… numerous.”
Because “numerous” is the polite word. “Overprinted” is the official word. The Chaos Legion prefers the honest one:
Uncontainable.
Once upon a time, they were scarce. Desirable. The kind of card you pulled and immediately flexed like you’d been personally blessed by RNG.
Then the presses started running like a demon motor with no off switch.
They were fired into the world in such volume that scarcity died, got resurrected, and died again out of embarrassment. They poured into Praetoria like a flood of identical faces shouting, “LOOK AT ME, I’M SPECIAL,” while the market quietly adjusted their value to “spare change under the couch.”
And that’s when the faction’s mood changed.
Because when your perceived worth collapses, you stop pretending you’re precious. You stop standing with your chest out like a collector’s item. You lean into being what the world already thinks you are:
A cheap thrill.
A reckless binge.
A sticky little mess of consequences.
Officially, the league rules say you’re not supposed to show up to battle sweaty, wet, nasty, or otherwise… compromised. It’s a “professional environment,” they claim. A “competitive setting.”
The Chaos Legion read that rule, laughed until they choked, and pinned it to the shrine wall as scripture.
Then they broke it with religious dedication.
Because Chaos Legion culture is built on two pillars:
Violence, and
Poor impulse control.
When rewards cards started blasting out like an industrial confetti cannon—endless, relentless, unstoppable—the Legion stopped acting like dignified warriors and started acting like a population boom with swords.
They called it “birth.” Everyone else called it “inflation.”
Either way, the result was the same: Praetoria got crowded.
So the authorities panicked, as authorities always do when reality doesn’t respect their spreadsheets. They drafted policies. They announced “controls.” They hired grim little administrators with clipboards and tight mouths.
There were whisper campaigns about “back alley vasectomies” performed by unlicensed healers behind taverns with names like The Bent Hammer and The Last Regret. There were “wellness initiatives” that were basically just fear packaged as a pamphlet.
And then, because no bad idea stays hypothetical in Praetoria, someone in the palace invented a game.
Hide and Castrate.
They claimed it was “symbolic.” “A morale exercise.” “Not what it sounds like.”
Sure.
The Chaos Legion responded the only way they know how: by turning the whole thing into a joke, then turning the joke into a festival, then turning the festival into a recurring calendar event.
Because the more you try to clamp down on them, the more they treat the clamp like a challenge.
And just when it seemed like the Legion might finally slow down—when the market had cratered and the jokes had grown old—something new happened.
Modern cards arrived.
Sleek. Fresh. Confident. Loaded with new mechanics and attitude. They walked into Praetoria like they owned it, looking at the Chaos Legion like a cautionary tale.
The Chaos Legion looked back like a bad decision that learned how to smile.
What followed was officially called “cross-set interaction.”
Unofficially, it was called mating season.
The air around the Legion camps started shimmering with that weird, dangerous haze everyone pretended wasn’t there—radioactive aura love juice, the kind of magical atmosphere that makes rational thought pack its bags and leave town.
And from that haze came the next generation:
Soulbound cards.
Untradeable. Unshakable. Glued to your account like karmic debt. The kind of offspring you can’t pawn off when things get messy. The kind you’re stuck raising, leveling, and explaining to your friends like, “No, I swear, it just… happened.”
Authorities tried to stop it. They issued bans. They threatened penalties. They wagged fingers like finger-wagging ever stopped a faction literally named Chaos.
But by then, inflation had done what inflation always does: made money feel fake enough to spend like it’s confetti.
And the Chaos Legion spent.
They bought drinks. They bought gear. They bought nonsense. They bought the idea of consequences and then returned it for store credit.
Then they began hosting the most infamous ritual in all of Praetoria:
The Field Plowings.
Twenty-hour marathons of “devotion,” where the faithful gathered to test endurance, hunger, pride, and whatever was left of common sense. They dragged the Great Unknown Plow into an open field like it was a holy ark and a party prop at the same time.
One volunteer would be strapped to the front—grinning like they’d just won a lottery no sane person would enter. Another would “drive,” holding the handles with the solemn intensity of a priest performing last rites.
And the crowd would roar.
Not for love. Not for romance.
For volume.
For numbers.
For the sacred Chaos Legion dream: to make the population graph climb so hard it breaks the y-axis.
All night, they’d chant. All night, they’d swear oaths. All night, they’d grind their devotion into legend—never describing the details in public, but making sure everybody knew.
Because in Praetoria, implication is a weapon.
At dawn, the field would be littered with wax drippings, empty bottles, torn banners, and that unmistakable air of a faction that had once again proven it could not be shamed into behaving.
Then they’d show up to battle anyway.
Messy. Smirking. Overabundant.
The officials would scowl, the rulebooks would tremble, and the Chaos Legion would march out as they always have: too many, too loud, too shameless to die quietly.
And the Great Unknown Plow would sit in its shrine, silent as ever, while its followers whispered the only prayer that ever mattered:
“Plow, multiply us.”