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

With a chorus of grunts and groans, Angar wrestled himself into the clothes and boots.

The fabric was surprisingly soft, a pale gray that felt pleasant against his skin, but the fit was all wrong. The tunic stretched painfully tight across his shoulders, its hem dropping awkwardly to his mid-thighs, while the trousers pooled around his ankles, too long for his frame.

The boots, though, were sturdy and comfortable, and fit his feet well.

Emblazoned across the chest of the long-sleeved tunic in bold, blocky letters were the words 'Saint Krakus Cloisteranage.' Beneath that, in smaller text, it read, 'Erim Sector, Zanaya.' The lettering was crisp and proud.

Dressed at last, maul gripped firmly in one hand, Angar poked the button on the counter.

Barely a minute passed before a woman glided into the room, shrouded in dark robes that swallowed her form. A deep hood cast her face in shadow, but a fleeting glance revealed youthful features, perhaps early twenties, and a slender build, her hands clasped delicately before her, fingers interlaced.

She met his gaze for only a brief moment before waving him forward with a flick of her wrist, then turned and slipped out of the room.

Angar followed her into a broader chamber, the air laced with the sharp scent of crushed leaves with a bitter edge.

Along the walls, beds were neatly aligned, a few of them occupied by children and young adults. Some bore crude bandages wrapped around arms or legs, showing dark stains blooming through the cloth. Others lay still, their faces gaunt and colorless, as if life had already begun to seep away.

Another woman, clad in the same flowing and dark robes, moved among them. Her head was swathed in a cloth that draped low, shadowing her eyes, and her garments whisked against the stone floor as she worked.

She paused beside a boy with a bound arm, pressing a damp rag on his skin. She spoke in a soft murmur, soothing the boy, his pained expression lessening, though her firm grip kept him from squirming.

Her presence seemed to anchor the room with a quiet strength that held the encroaching disorder at bay. As she straightened, her shadowed gaze found Angar's, and she offered a small, warm smile paired with a slight nod.

He returned the gesture, stepping away from the doorway. The machine's low hum faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of the guide's robes and the shallow breaths of the patients. Most of the children's eyes tracked him as he crossed the room, wide with curiosity, until he stepped outside.

The silent woman in dark robes continued ahead, and Angar trailed her into the night. "Excuse me," he said, the words breaking the quiet, "what should I call you?"

She didn't pause or turn, only beckoned him onward with that same slight wave as her robes continued brushing the stone path.

It was nighttime, and the air had an acrid hint of smoke and a metallic tang. Dim lights lined the twisting path, casting long shadows.

Far off, a glow pierced the night, likely the city of Erim, its towering shapes faintly outlined against the sky.

On either side, large and blocky silhouettes loomed with tall and strange structures with sharp and irregular edges stabbing upward, utterly unlike the buildings of Erim.

The paths were deserted, and he spotted no one out and about.

He was grateful for the people he'd seen inside, and the other oddly dressed woman's murmured words to the child. Without that, he might've wondered if his guide were a spirit. He wished she'd say something.

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They passed a hulking and scarred building with dark and pitted walls. He got a whiff of something burnt, and the smoke smell and the metallic tang grew a little stronger. Beyond it, a wide, empty space opened up, marked by deep trenches and scattered with strange objects and broken stones.

The woman pressed on with sure steps, leading him toward some large structures ahead. They passed between many buildings that looked the same, or very similar, before reaching one in specific.

At its entrance, the silent lady tugged a chain once, the sharp clang it caused far too loud in this peaceful stillness, then pushed the door open.

It groaned in protest, revealing a cavernous chamber within. The space soared upward, its ceiling almost swallowed by darkness. Tall, narrow windows covered a large amount of the walls, even much of the ceiling, and each was a piece of ornate and elaborate art, filled with color.

The floor gleamed like polished bone, reflecting the eerie glow of bizarre lamps with twisted metal hands suspended from chains, clutching small, wavering flames coming from no visible source, no candle stumps or anything, just the metal hands themselves.

Intricate carvings adorned the stone walls with strange patterns heavy with cryptic intent.

The air was warm, the silence deep, and the space felt weird, like he was out of place here.

The woman led him to a small doorway to a side chamber, into a small chapel made for personal reverence.

Within, a stone slab stood before a wall bearing an embossed, exquisite relief of the Trey, carved with graceful and commanding lines.

No pews filled the space, just a few worn mats on the floor, shaped by the knees of those who'd prayed there before.

The light here was gentler, the air richer with the scent of spent candles and a potent, unfamiliar aroma that Angar liked, and the walls seemed to pulse with a strange, subtle, and hidden energy.

A figure knelt before the stone slab with her back straight as a spear. Her dark and heavy robes draped over her like armor, pooling around her on the floor.

Even in prayer, her posture was rigid, unbowed by age or time. When she turned, her face came into view.

She was an elder woman with skin etched with deep lines and sharp and unyielding features. Her eyes were cold and piercing, like shards of ice, and her thin mouth formed an unforgiving line.

Her gaze struck Angar with a stern and relentless force of judgment, as if mercy had no place within her.

The silent guide dipped in a shallow bow before retreating, and the elder acknowledged it with a faint nod, her eyes never leaving Angar. "Come, Child," she said, her voice carrying a surprising thread of warmth despite her forbidding visage, "kneel beside me and pray."

Angar exhaled a quiet breath of relief, glad this one spoke. He strode forward, lowering himself onto the mat beside her, holding in a grunt of pain, his maul's haft standing on the floor, gripped with his right hand.

To his left, a stunning mural adorned the wall of Spirit locked in fierce combat with Mammon, her face a mask of stern resolve, her form radiant.

To his right, another image showed Spirit merging with a vast, circuit-covered brain, rays of light bursting forth from both in a cascade of Divinity.

The artistry was breathtaking.

He gripped his maul, cycling his energy in the advanced way Spirit had taught him, letting the familiar rhythm steady him, but prayer itself didn't make much sense to his mind.

The Lord wanted tributes of blood and battle, and Angar offered Him as much as he could. That was really the beginning and end of it, and all that was needed. He hoped he tithed enough to earn him a place in Heaven, where God would sing of his praises, and laud his courage and might.

He believed when others prayed to the Lord, Spirit, or Theosis, maybe all three at once, they spoke to them somehow, but he didn't really understand why. He thought they asked for things. That wasn't his way. And thinking of Spirit made him feel a profound sense of loss.

Clearing his mind to assist meditation felt pointless when he could sharpen it instead. He sifted through memories of past skirmishes and battles, his hammer clashing, missteps that cost him, lessons etched in scars. And there were plenty of mistakes to mull over.

Then his thoughts drifted to battles yet unfought, conjuring towering foes with gleaming armor, monstrous visages, and horrible powers. He pictured himself standing over them, victorious, or falling in a blaze of glory, honoring his ancestors, his name spoken with respect and awe for all of time.

"So devout," the elder's voice cut through his reverie, softly but clearly. He blinked, turning to find her smiling at him, the first slivers of dawn creeping through the narrow windows, painting her lined face in gold.

"No one has ever lasted the night praying at my side," she said in a tone tinged with wonder. "And you so wounded, with barely four hours' prior rest. I refused to be outdone, but morning has come, and our vigil ends. I begin to see why Holy Theosis tasked me with wresting you from the Eyes of Providence. Help me up, Child."

Angar rose, biting back the groan that fought to escape his throat. He shifted his maul to his left hand and extended his right.

She didn't flinch, grasping the monstrous thing with a steady hand and a smile that lingered as she hauled herself up, her own groans escaping in painful rasps.

It wasn't much of a guess, but he thought this must be Venerable Sister Kenson.