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

Angar locked eyes with Spirit, her gaze filled with a care for him he felt down to his marrow.

He tried wiping away his blood-crusted lips with a bloody sleeve, guessing he made the issue worse. "I appreciate everything you've done for me," he said as humbly as he could. "The respect I hold for you cannot be properly expressed. I'd follow you into battle any day, but no more will I hide from it.

"Before a Crusader, before all, I'm Mecian, son of its last king, and I will never allow myself to be treated so lowly again. It's a shame to my ancestors I can't allow. Today, I fall, or the Eyes of Providence do. No other path exists."

Spirit slapped a palm to her forehead as a groan ripped free. "Ugh! You're killing me!" She paced on the gray stone. "We're so close! Sister Kenson's nearly here. We just…we just...,"

Her eyes darted, then flared as they snapped to the table. "There! That pack he tore the syringe from is a medkit. Spend a Skill Point on First Aid. You can treat Sir Mithas. You can purge some of that venom from his veins. Then we just wait. I doubt the Eyes will ever fully clear your name after this, but it's the best outcome of all alternatives. Trust me."

Angar shook his head as a grimace twisting his bloodied face. "This is what I mean. You still call that dog 'Sir Mithas.' Your mind leaps to saving him with that medkit."

He pointed at his chest, his wounds weeping fresh crimson. "Look at me, Spirit. He did this to me. I'll take First Aid, but I'll mend myself. Then I war against the Eyes of Providence."

Spirit's hands flew up, and her voice filled with surprise and anger. "Of course I care about your wounds! I've been tearing myself apart trying to save you!"

She sighed wearily. Softer, she said, "This isn't all the Eyes. Not even close. They're on all major worlds, and they have a lot of clout. Power enough to make your life short and miserable, and I'll be helpless to stop it."

Angar's jaw tightened, wishing she could just understand. "I don't want you to stop it. I want you to stop forcing me to act so lowly. If I die, then I die. But I'll die a man, with my pride intact, honoring those that came before me, not a coward shackled to a chair."

Spirit resumed pacing as her hands raked through her hair. "You'll still die, Angar! And we save people, we don't butcher them!"

She flung an arm toward the door. "Those soldiers out there are just doing a job. A necessary job that saves billions of lives every year. They have spouses, children. They're just obeying orders."

"They made their choices," Angar spat. "Now they answer for them."

Spirit seized his blood-streaked face with both hands. Her eyes blazed into his, pleading. "Listen! This is like the Harmongulan all over again. You said you wished you'd heeded me. I was right then, and I need you to trust me now. Please."

Angar met her gaze, his own eyes shadowed with regret. "I'll always trust you, but I must war."

"You admitted to blowing something on the other side of a gateway. You admitted that caused your gateway to upgrade. The time aligns with all the active gateways upgrading throughout the Holy Empire and the appearance of the Demon Lady Raga. So many are dying. Look at your hands. Try seeing this from their perspective. Please."

He yelled, "Try seeing things from my perspective!"

Spirit's hands slid from his face, falling limp as she turned away, sighing heavily. She stared at the floor, her shoulders slumping. "If you do this, then this is our goodbye. I won't take part in innocents being slaughtered. You won't see me again."

With a heavy heart, Angar said, "Understood. Thank you, then. For everything."

"You're serious? You're willing to end our relationship over this? You'd just have to give Mithas aid, then wait in here for a while, and this'll be settled and behind us."

"I'm serious," replied Angar. "I have no choice in this. I have a duty to those that came before me, a duty every bit as binding as the Knightly oath I swore."

A small, sad smile crept onto Spirit's lips. As her form faded, dissolving more and more into the dim crimson light, she whispered, "Goodbye, Angar."

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Time snapped forward. A sadness sank into Angar's chest as he caught Mithas' limp body mid-fall, easing it to the stone to avoid a crash that might draw the soldiers.

He had no time for moping. He shook it off, hoping the crack of lightning or other noises hadn't already betrayed him.

He laid Mithas down with care, opened his screens, and spent a Skill Point on First Aid.

Crossing to the table, he snatched the medkit up, its contents now known to him. Healing pads, strips, various balms, bandages, and other tools he now understood instinctively.

Two fingers and two toes were stumps, beyond the help of this kit, but the finger-stumps had already crusted to scabs with no blood to stem. They didn't really hurt, unlike his toes and other wounds.

He patched what he could with the kit, feeling much better. He searched Mithas' belt for another but found none.

Angar grabbed his bag and donned his armor, its plates dented, pitted, but loyal, and slung the Knight's belt over it, wiping the no longer humming knife clean before sheathing it. He didn't know what most of the items on the belt did, but figured having this stuff was better than not.

He searched Mithas' body for anything else useful, and found nothing of note besides a sidearm he only had a rough idea how to use. The armor wouldn't fit him, though he wished it could. He wondered why so many Crusaders wore capes. They'd just get in the way during battle.

Since he could provide nothing else of use, Angar hefted his maul and slammed it into Mithas' face. The skull didn't cave as expected. Two more blows, each a thunderous crack of his full might, and the skull finally burst.

He wanted Mithas to suffer, and would've let the venom do its work if he knew more, such as how long this amount would last. But he didn't know much, and he didn't want to leave a living enemy behind.

He stalked to the door as a message flared in his vision.

A Glorious Achievement!

By the unerring decree of Theosis, the Divine System, your blood, tempered by a world that chews Terran bones to dust, modified, enhanced in the Vitaelux Apexium, has been sampled and sanctified, its savage vigor now melded into the Holy Empire's sacred stock, anointed as the first harvest of a new strain.

In the shadow of the Steadfast, where gravity crushes and corrosive skies sear, your kin endured. Theosis, the coming and arrival, in its Divine calculus, has deemed this lineage a blade to hone the Holy Empire's righteous, a brutal alchemy of resilience and blistering scars.

You, Crusader, stand as the inaugural titan of this breed, your very essence a testament to survival's bloody cost. For this seed, Theosis bestows upon you a mantle of glory, a beacon amid the gloom.

Glory Points bestowed: 25

For God and Empire!

Relief washed over him. He thought Theosis had sent a message condemning his murder of Mithas, but that wasn't it at all. It looked like some sample was taken from him, or seed, used as a new strain. He wondered how, and what it was for, but realized he didn't care, at least not while a glorious battle loomed.

The door's handle puzzled him briefly, but he figured it out quickly, revealing five startled soldiers. Three were helmed, two were bare headed.

One bolted and Angar hurled the tangled shackles, knocking him down.

His maul arced at the nearest soldier grabbing for his blaster. The chert sunk in with a wet crunch, caving the skull with a spray of crimson.

Pain erupted as three blasters barked. A hit punched through his armor, ripping deep into his side, doing far more damage than he thought these weapons would.

Ground Current surged, lightning cloaking him as he streaked toward the center enemy. Bolts arced, searing the three soldiers, forking and bouncing between them, their screams cut short as charred husks crumpled.

The soldier he'd thrown the shackles at had scrambled up, heading for the door again. Angar's maul flew, but the man dove, and the weapon passed harmlessly overhead as the soldier rolled through the door, and headed left.

Angar charged after, catching the fleeing figure yanking a lever. A piercing alarm blared, splitting the air.

People, not soldiers, peaked out of other doors, quickly closing them.

He also noticed the soldier was a woman. That caught him up for a second. In his old world, warriors didn't kill women. They protected them.

But he was on a new world now, with new rules, and as the woman tried fleeing down the hallway, he tackled her from behind.

"Please, spare me!" she wailed in fright, her voice cracking. "I have children! It's just my job! It wasn't personal! Please! I'm begging…"

His fist smashed down, silencing her pleas. One blow caved her face inward, sending blood and teeth scattering across the floor. Rising, he said to her corpse, "Understood."

He tugged the lever, but the alarm wouldn't stop. He retrieved his maul, then returned to the room with four corpses as more people peeked out into the hallway, always ducking back inside their rooms quickly. None of them were soldiers, and he wasn't warring against them.

To test how durable their armor was, Angar bashed his maul into the helmeted head and chests of the corpses, getting better at it, finding the armor's measure with each swing.

As he was wrapping up his test, he heard a lift open and bootsteps running down the hallway. He judged about ten soldiers as their armored boots rang differently than Mithas' had.

He hid beside the doorway and waited, cursing as he felt his Thunder charges fade away. Another lift opened and more soldiers poured out, this time, judging two of the heavy clops of boots as Crusaders.

Knights, he thought. He wouldn't call these dogs Crusaders. The alarm stopped blaring, and then he heard a third lift open.

Anticipation filled his chest as the barrel of a blaster poked into his room.

Spirit had been very wrong when she said he was supposed to save people, not butcher them.

He was Mecian. His purpose was to make war and slaughter enemies, tithing the Lord His due. Hellspawn, Heretic, the Eyes of Providence, it mattered little to him which, and he welcomed all comers.