Deus in Machina (a Warhammer 40K-setting inspired LitRPG)

As the demon's finger pushed deeper into Angar's temple, his world dissolved into a swirling void, a maelstrom of darkness and malice where time and space warped into nothingness.

The demon's presence was a suffocating weight, a ravenous black hole that gnawed at his thoughts, clawing at the seams of his identity, desperate to unravel him, to erase the man he was.

It didn't tempt him with lies or twist his faith. It attacked with pure, unrelenting force. Slimy tendrils of profane filth coiled around his brain, squeezing, trying to crush his consciousness, snuff it out of existence.

Angar's mind reeled under the siege. The unrelenting pressure set his memories fraying, his purpose slipping, erasing the very reason for his existence.

But that slippery part of his mind fought against this, and deep within, a stubborn spark of his soul refused to go quietly, so easily. In his chest, a core of iron will blazed defiantly, rallying against the darkness.

In Cloisteranage, he'd learned the rudiments to resist demonic possession, and now he desperately scrambled to wield them before it was too late.

He seized on part of his Knightly oath, words etched into his every atom. 'With each breath until my last, I shall fight, my heart burning with the righteous fire of wrath, my flesh a vessel of ceaseless might, my mind ablaze with sacred fervor, my spirit unbreakable, my soul incorruptible.'

Those words were his anchor, his lifeline against oblivion. He envisioned them as a physical object, shielding his mind, a towering fortress of radiant steel, its walls forged from his faith, its foundations rooted in the blood of his ancestors, its towers piercing the sky with his pride, its palisade his unyielding duty.

It would stand unbowed, a bulwark against evil.

The demon's next assault came in a relentless upsurge, hurling horrific visions, stabbing at his heart. Images of his own hands drenched in blood, his people, the innocents he was supposed to protect, buried beneath rivers of ash and molten stone from the volcanoes he had unleashed upon them.

The screams of women and children echoed in his skull, their accusing eyes boring into his soul. Searing guilt twisted in his gut, drowning him in shame, forcing him to relive all his gravest failures.

And there were a lot of them. Spirit was right to have abandoned him.

But through it all, Angar clung to his oath, picturing his vows as glowing chains binding the fortress' walls, holding fast against the tide of despair, weathering this storm as he had weathered all life had thrown at him.

The assault abruptly ceased. He was victorious.

But only for a moment. Great doubt slithered in, a serpent's hiss weaving through his thoughts. He was nothing. A frail mortal against a mighty entity of the higher planes of Hell itself. His mind's collapse was inevitable. Resistance was futile.

The words ate at his resolve like acid, each syllable a poison seeping into his veins. He would succumb. It couldn't be stopped. The end result of this battle was foregone. He would fail.

Angar's heart faltered, breaking under the weight of inevitability, of fate bearing down, claiming its due.

And maybe it was true. Maybe he was doomed. But he'd never quit before, and he wouldn't start now. If he was to fall, he'd fall fighting, and gloriously, honoring those who had come before him.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached as he thickened the fortress with memories of triumphs hard-won.

The Harmongulan, a Dreadfiend whose name struck terror in the mighty, felled by his hand.

The Abyssal Tyrant, the Phasorax, killer of famous Knights like Saint Kragor the Hellcleaver, stood twice empowered, defeated in its own realm, despite Angar missing an arm.

Zhaeryn Vexn, a professional duelist, a Knight-Master, defeated in battle where Angar fought unarmored and outmatched, over a full Tier below his opponent.

He had defied a Nofelim, both Azgoth's dark corruption and psychic might.

He had thrust his hands into a gateway, exploding a device beyond, and survived the ungodly commands of ancient evils. Sure, Spirit was largely responsible for that one, but no one else in the history of the Holy Empire could say they had done what he had, Spirit helping or not.

He had stood alone against gateways and Hellspawn hordes, emerging bloodied but unbowed every time.

Each victory was a stone in his fortress' ramparts.

His spirit was unbreakable.

The demon roared in frustration. When doubt failed, pain surged in its place, a psychic flaying that tore at his soul, infernal claws raking across his essence.

Agony blazed through him, a fire beyond flesh, scorching every nerve, every thought in a searing inferno. It was as if his very existence was being burned away.

But Angar embraced the pain, letting it stoke his defiance, and, in his mind, he stood taller, challenging the demon to give its worst. Since he was a small child, agony had always been his terrible, constant companion, his mother's brutal lessons learned well, etched into his bones. None knew its bite better.

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The fortress trembled with walls scorched and scarred, but it stood, unshaken, a testament to his will and his faith.

The demon's fury erupted as a tangible quake in the void, something Angar could feel, something palpable. It unleashed a massive assault, a tidal wave of dark energy, a necrotic flood, a deluge that drowned his mind in unholy darkness, and Angar couldn't stop it.

The fortress cracked. Fissures snaked through its trembling walls.

Angar wasn't sure exactly what happened, what the assault did, but he was left teetered on the edge of annihilation, with time stretching into an eternity of torment. His vision dimmed, his heartbeat became a fading thump in the abyss, and his end was right there, staring him in the eye, taunting him.

But he still drew breath. And as long as he did, he could, and would, still battle, his flesh a vessel of ceaseless might.

He clasped onto his oath, whispering it through gritted teeth, each word a spark in the dark, as he desperately clung to the precipice of oblivion, and took whatever the demon threw at him.

And it threw a lot. He took it all, reveling in his defiance. He had no idea how much time passed, but as it did, a light kindled within him.

It was faint at first, then flared into a golden radiance, a Holy fire bolstering his resolve, that sang with hymns, shouted litanies, setting his mind ablaze with sacred fervor.

His will became a bonfire, the flames searing the demon's writhing tendrils, driving them back, rallying against the darkness.

The light swelled, burning in his heart with the righteous fire of wrath. With a final, desperate heave, he banished all the shadows, rebuking the profane, and cast the demon from his mind.

As he had vowed, his soul was incorruptible, and Angar didn't break his oaths. No demon, higher-planes or not, would possess his body.

The psychic bond snapped in a silent thunderclap. The cage shook as frost exploded from the corpses, floor, and bars, the shards glittering like tainted glass in the eerie light.

The shadow demon recoiled, its crimson eyes flaring with terror, its shadowy form fraying like smoke caught in a storm.

It surged toward the Caitiff in a desperate bid to reclaim its host.

Vertigo gripped Angar, setting his vision swimming worse, but he forced it aside with a snarl. His sight cleared a little, his mind still raw, like an aching wound, but his body moved on instinct, lunging forward as fast as he could.

His claws swiped at the demon's spirit, passing through it like mist as it rushed forward.

He pounced off a corpse, streaking forward, making another grab, but the ethereal form slipped through his grasp once more.

Reality shifted as the two planes vied for dominance. In one, the Caitiff lay as a ruined husk, its skull split open, blood spreading out in a dark pool.

In the other, it stood whole but dazed, its empty eyes staring into nothingness, a puppet abandoned by its master.

Angar's Infernus Oculus struggled to show him the truth, maybe because both were true in their respective planes, but he had no time to give it more thought.

He rushed the Caitiff, diving forward, tackling it to the ground. His claws plunged into its mouth, sinking into its flesh as he gripped its jaw with both hands.

The demon's spirit was deteriorating, its form thinning, but it was at its host. Angar had to act faster.

He heaved with all his might, grunting from the strain, his armor aiding his strength, and the jaw cracked with a sickening snap.

The demon's essence had almost fully re-entered its host, but Angar roared, pulling harder.

With a final, brutal wrench, the Caitiff's head tore apart, sending dark blood spraying across the cage.

The demon's spirit, expelled from its dead host, let out a horrific wail that scraped at Angar's mind like meat hooks, his ears tearing from the sound.

It darted frantically, its crimson eyes locking onto possible hosts, the figures near the warehouse entrance, all watching him battle, even the lounging Harc, all suspended in the temporal stasis.

As it reached the cage's edge, the runes etched into the floors flared with violet light, a barrier of sacred power it couldn't breach.

The demon's form slammed against the invisible wall, its shadowy tendrils of darkness writhing in desperation. It turned into smoke, trying to penetrate the ground, maybe escape back to Hell, but the runes kept it caged.

Angar rose, his mind still trembling from the mental ordeal, and stalked toward the trapped spirit.

A grim smile split his bloodied face as he stared at it, watching it wail in terror, its essence fading into a shrinking spot of darkness.

That dark spot glittered briefly, then solidified, and fell with a sharp cling, leaving an item on the ground.

That would be the reward forged by Holy Theosis for Angar's triumph.

With no host to claim and unable to return to its true form in the Underworld, the demon's spirit dissolved completely, its malevolence extinguished, defeated. In Hell, its body of flesh was now dead.

By rejecting its possession, and it not being able to escape the cage, or find a new host, Angar had killed a real demon.

He stood, spent but unbroken, his mind a painful mess, but it had withstood a demonic attempt to crush it. He had stared into the abyss, faced the unholy, and emerged whole.

He knew, in this never-ending gloom, even victory bore its price. He'd pay. One day.

But not today.

The cage returned to normal, time resuming its flow, the dual planes collapsing into one, and Holy Theosis sent Angar a System message.

Three Glorious Achievements!

Crusader, anointed blade of the Holy Trinity's wrath. By the sacred will of Theosis, the Divine overseer, the coming and the arrival, your valor has pierced the gloom of infernal treachery, a radiant testament to the unyielding might of the Holy Empire.

In the shadowed crucible of battle, amidst a cage stained with the unholy ichor of blasphemous abominations, you have stood as a mortal vessel of Divine retribution, your soul a blazing pyre that consumes the darkness.

With fervor unquenched, you have smote vile foes and defied the abyss itself, preserving the sanctity of this world for the Holy Trinity's light.

Three deeds of honor burn as righteous beacons in this triumph:

The Felling of a Caitiff – at a mere level 43, Knight-Adept, you faced a blasphemous Caitiff of the second Realm, its power dwarfing your own, yet your righteous fury brought it low, a feat to echo in the annals of your Knightly Chapter, the Smallest Spark: 21 Glory Points (level difference 65/3, rounded down).

The Denial of a True Demon – against a malevolent and profane spirit from Hell's higher planes, your mind stood as an unyielding fortress, your soul a blazing beacon of purity, repelling its profane possession with the iron will of the faithful: 10 Glory Points.

The Slaying of the Higher-Plane Demon – with sacred resolve, you sundered its host, denying the demon's spirit refuge, forcing its wretched and unholy essence to dissolve into ash, a victory that strikes terror into the infernal legions: 25 Glory Points.

Let the Enlightened Scribes write your name in molten gold upon the Litany of Heroes, for you have not merely served, but have become the embodiment of the Holy Trinity's vengeance, a scourge upon the unholy. Your deeds shall resound through the sacred worlds of the Holy Empire, a clarion call to all who stand against Hell's evil.

Glory Points Bestowed: 56

For God and Empire!