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

As the group twisted into monstrous abominations and the arms of Hell creatures poked through those three strange blotches, Venerable Sister Kenson and the bearded veteran stood frozen, their faces pale masks of astonishment and dread.

Angar searched his own mind for the telltale whispers of dark sorcery that might have seized their wills, but he felt nothing. No insidious whispers wormed through his thoughts, no shadow clouded his resolve.

Whatever held them still, it wasn't enchantment. He believed they were just shocked.

This was Heresy, plain and vile, the kind his oath as a Crusader demanded he kill the practitioners of. He was certain even Spirit would be fine with him killing these Heretics.

He couldn't wait for those two to snap out of the shock or whatever held them still. "Run!" he bellowed to the sister and the veteran, loud enough his voice echoed through the chamber.

He didn't hesitate. His maul thudded into the closest monster, doing little noticeable damage. The thing just took it, not even letting out a whimper of pain.

They were all just standing there, unmoving while their transformations finished unfurling.

Ground Current surged through him with a crackling jolt that hurled him into the heart of the monstrous cluster. Their tight formation was a gift, and he'd make them regret it.

Lightning bolted down, ripping through his enemies, bouncing, forking.

Luckily, the forks didn't reach the sister and veteran, but, annoyingly, they still hadn't moved.

"Kenson! Veteran! Flee my lightning!" he roared again, as loud as he could, enough for his voice to cut through the chaos.

Either his shout or something else finally jolted Kenson awake. She barked a command to the bearded man and bolted deeper into the rectory, her robes billowing like a storm cloud as she fled.

The veteran stumbled after her, casting a wide-eyed glance back at the horrific sight.

After hitting a few others while they were stunned, and to little effect still, once he saw the creatures moving, he didn't wait, and spun into Tempest, his weapon a blur of death before the creatures could scatter.

The maul thudded into his foes over and over, unceasing, then lightning erupted from its head, arcing in wild, forking tendrils that bit into each fiend, searing scales and flesh with acrid smoke. Their guttural and otherworldly groans grew much louder as the chamber lit up with electric fury.

And on he spun, his weapon a relentless hammer of judgment.

Namgyal, or the thing she'd become, tried to slink away with the serpentine tendril whipping ahead. He adjusted his path, ensuring each swing slammed into her grotesque form with a heavy thud.

Scales cracked under the blows, sending strange ichor splattering, but she refused to fall. Instead, she stopped, wheeling on him with hollow eyes blazing, deciding to stand and give battle instead of fleeing.

Twin streams of searing light-spheres erupted from her clawed hands, streaking toward him like comets.

The other Hellspawn, or twisted Heretics, whatever these things were, joined her assault, unleashing a barrage of fell spells, such as jagged bolts of shadow and tongues of sickly flame, all tearing into his flesh.

Pain bloomed across his body, sharp, burning, and immediate, as more and more blood sprayed around him with each rotation.

Then a creature, what had once been the woman with the box, finished a guttural incantation. A wave of dark energy pulsed outward, and Thunderstorm's lightning, his own Ability, twisted back against him.

The bolts that should've ravaged only his enemies recoiled, an arc curving back, scorching his own skin every time Thunderstorm pulsed.

This was bad. His mind churned, becoming sharp and focused despite the agony.

He wasn't taking the type of damage firearms would cause, but it was more damage than he could take for much longer. His own power had turned traitor, and his body was burned, battered, punctured, and leaking too much life.

He needed a plan, fast.

He looked at the blotches in the air. More arms were sticking out of them, forcing the rifts wider.

Retreating to a side room might let him carve these enemies apart one by one, but none had fallen yet, and he doubted he'd last long enough to make it to, never mind exploit a choke point.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Fleeing out the front door and running for it was an option. But that was a craven's option. Even if he was cowardly enough to run, he hoped he'd never be so big of one as to lead these horrors out and risk the children of this Cloisteranage.

Following Kenson deeper inside was tempting, but Tempest's 90% damage mitigation was the only thing keeping him alive. Once it ended, he'd be a sitting target in the open, cut down as he was chased, well before he reached some cover deeper in the rectory's vast vestibule.

No. The best path forward, the only path he saw that would result in at least some dead enemies, was to continue with Tempest, right among them.

He had to endure, to trust that Tempest and Thunderstorm would claim a kill soon, at least let him know the measure of these foes.

Gritting his teeth, he poured his will into the spin, his maul crashing into Namgyal and the nearest fiends with relentless force.

Spells pounded into him, sending his blood spraying in crimson arcs, his vision blurring at the edges, but he refused to yield.

He wondered how much more damage Namgyal could take. The lightning smoked her scales, the impacts rocked her frame, but she still stood, mocking him with her resilience.

Then the fight turned uglier. Two of the creatures lunged into his orbit with claws slashing through the storm. One raked his side, tearing cloth and flesh alike, another darted in and swiped at his arm, drawing a gush of red.

Namgyal's tendril reared high, its sinuous length snapping down like a whip. Its fangs pierced his shoulder, leaving a line of fire in its wake, poising him.

Angar snarled, his resolve hardening. This was his stand. Live or die, he'd kill one of these vile abominations, and on he kept spinning, the world a whirlwind of pain and defiance.

Just over four seconds in, darkness crept into his sight, his thoughts growing heavy as blood painted the floor in wild spirals, and foul venom clouded his mind. Not one foe had fallen, and their spells and claws were growing more relentless.

But at five seconds, a new sound split the chaos – the sharp retorts of blasters. Kenson and the veteran stormed back into the fray, weapons blazing.

Kenson wielded a pair of giant pistols with barrels spitting a stream of fiery rounds like miniature suns, the weapons firing continuously, something he thought only auto-blasters and turrets could do.

She almost cackled madly as her pistols spit fire endlessly. A wave of radiant energy released from her, something similar to the Divine Conflagration Capstone, and washed over the transformed clergy. They shrieked in unison, their forms smoking as the light scorched them, and a soothing warmth bathed Angar, knitting some of his wounds with faint relief.

The veteran braced a massive auto-blaster in his lone arm, roaring without cease, his face set in a grimace of hardened determination. A shimmer flared before him, which had to be Defensive Fortification, as a translucent block snapped into place in front of him.

He crouched behind it, Kenson dropping beside him, their combined fire a symphony of destruction that drowned the Hellspawn's cries.

Those two joining in battle changed things. Plans were modified.

As Angar, his strength waning, veered toward a side room, six seconds ticked by. He knew he had two spins left to go, and he wouldn't make it.

He looked at the three blotches in the air, and they were almost large enough for the Hell creatures to claw through.

He moved as fast as he could. Two spins came and went quickly. Tempest ended, leaving him exposed, fully in the open.

He staggered, forcing his mind to cut through the haze of pain. With a desperate lunge, he dove away from all the spells and attacks aimed at him.

As his roll ended, Namgyal's tendril lashed out, snaring his ankle in a vise of agony, biting into him. It yanked him upward, and he dangled upside down, blood dripping from his wounds, pooling below.

I hate tendrils, he thought grimly through his clouded mind as his maul screeched through the air, smashing into the serpentine limb with all the fury he could muster.

Another wave of warmth hit him, dulling the edge of his torment. He smashed his maul again as another spell bit into him, and the tendril recoiled from his blow. His strike landed true a third time, and it finally released him.

He plummeted, crashing to the floor with a bone-jarring thud that stole his breath. A spell seared into the sole of his foot, causing a strange and awful pain that ripped a raw yell from his throat.

Another spell gouged his leg, a third his arm. Death loomed close now.

His body screamed for surrender, but he wouldn't die on his back. He'd die swinging, fighting, a true Mecian.

With a ragged roar, he forced his limbs to obey, attempting to haul himself upright. The serpentine tendril bit an arm as a spell burned into his chest, knocking him back down.

Glass shattered as armored figures burst through the rectory's high windows, their breastplates emblazoned with the triad of Treys, marking them as the Eyes of Providence.

"Send them all to Hell!" one Knight shouted.

Hot rage surged through Angar, and his chest filled with pure hate. The cowardly Eyes had come to finish him off in the most cowardly of ways.

With a primal cry, hate providing him new strength, empowering him, he forced himself back onto his feet.

The tendril lunging again, its fangs sinking into his cheek.

Blood streamed down his face, and another spell burned into his torso, but he noticed the Knights weren't targeting him for some reason. Yet. Their auto-blasters tore into the Hellspawn as light-blocks of Holy Fortification flared in front of them.

He knew he was poisoned. He assumed his mind was playing tricks, as these were his enemies. They weren't there to help him, but finish what they had failed to achieve in their headquarters.

As he staggered forward, some of the creatures finally crumpled dead, their bodies smoking husks on the floor. Namgyal and the survivors had already pivoted, their fury redirecting to the newcomer Knights, as Hell creatures began crawling out of those three rifts.

The lightning he'd unleashed through Tempest, all its forks and bounces, hadn't killed any of these fiends. But it had built enough charges. Alongside his hate, he could feel it crackling in his veins.

Angar seized the moment. He ripped the tendril from his face and crushed its head in his monstrous grip. Screaming a war cry, he lunged towards the closest living foe, his maul empowered by Glory Thunders.

A devastating shockwave of wrath ripped through the nearest Hellspawn in a cone, catching many of those beyond it. The blast hurled them backward, their twisted forms tumbling through the air in a chorus of strange and unholy shrieks.

Before he could tell if he killed at least one, something smashed into the back of his skull.

His vision swam, his legs buckled, and darkness claimed him as his head thudded off the hard stone floor.