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

Angar's power hammer crashed into the last bark-clad abomination, the graviton pulse shattering the Hellspawn's charred frame. A fiery bolt from Simo's Pyreclaw seared into its chest a heartbeat later, ending it.

His gaze shifted to the tree-like horror nearby. It had been a female student, no older than fourteen, twisted by the Riftseed into a sick parody of life. Guilt gnawed at him. Even bald, she'd been striking for an imperial girl, one not shaped by Vefol's harshness.

Another innocent dead because of him.

He shoved the feeling down. He was a Crusader before coming here. If they'd let him take the Grim Ordeals back then, this girl would still be alive, and his own odds of survival much higher.

Holy Theosis hadn't once demanded penance from him since Mount Shirdis erupted and its unintended toll of innocent lives. That struck him as odd, as many innocents had gotten caught up in all the attempts to kill him.

Like this girl. Most likely, she was blameless, duped, probably paid a handsome sum to deliver a gift to a rectory servant. All students were warned never to interact with Angar, come near him, or touch anything meant for him.

It was known that he resided in the rectory lot, but few students were aware of which high-ranking staff members lived in the individual residences outside the main rectory housing the majority of the clergy. Most students never entered the housing lot. They had no idea.

After forcing the guilt away, he looked at the corpses of his dead enemies. He always enjoyed slaughtering his foes before the Eyes could assist.

And whatever these spawns of Hell were, he had killed them before. If he hadn't, he'd have received Glorious Achievements for killing one or ten of them.

As he shook gore off his hammer, an Eyes' shuttle blazed overhead, hovering over the entrance.

Sir Charitut, one of the few Eyes that wasn't pompous and egotistical, and a squad of soldiers jumped out, their armor clanging and rattling on landing, just as Simo reached the doorway, his Pyreclaw slung.

The Eyes and Angar held no love for one another still, but, as they were forced to work together, they did so professionally, and to their mutual benefit.

"God and Empire, brother," Charitut said, his voice booming out of his helm, his armor still showing blackened mars from when Angar defeated him well over a year ago. "Finished them all off?"

"God and Empire," Angar replied. "I did, brother."

"Sorry we're late. We were in the middle of shift change. Chesty was briefing us on the earlier attack and the loot split. You'll get forty percent for the others, ninety for these new ones here, of course."

Chesty was Madame Blagochestie. The longer names Theosis gave Cloisteranage-born were often shortened to a nickname, but in this case, Angar suspected it had another meaning, considering how this Knight's torso armor bulged out so far.

The Eyes took ten percent to strip and sell Hellspawn and abomination parts when he and Simo fought alone, a cut he didn't mind. "Fair enough," he said.

With that done, Angar turned his mind to the day ahead. It was Sunday, so his schedule wasn't the usual. As the Eyes harvested corpses, he trained on the mostly empty Harrow Field, pushing his body hard.

He returned to the rectory alone and began cleaning up all the viscera. Simo entered minutes later with breakfast.

The veteran sighed, grimacing as he ate, watching as Angar shoveled food into his mouth.

"That's disgusting, Sir," Simo muttered. "You didn't wash them off, and your hands are filthy with infernal goo."

Angar ignored the chastisement. He was using a utensil and not touching the food with either his real or cybernetic hand. He believed Kenson tasked Simo with coaching Angar on how to behave more like a noble, though the veteran rarely did, probably because they rankled him.

They brought what remained of the bodies to the incinerator and scrubbed the rectory together, Simo telling stories about his children, or this, or that.

On Sunday, they also did groundskeeping, landscaping around the rectory, Angar glad Simo was as much a perfectionist as he was.

The shattered windows required a work order, with the cost covered by Saint Krakus. A relief, as the windows never lasted long. The Eyes often entered through them when Heretics or the Underworld attacked.

Then they cleaned themselves up, dressed in formal attire, and attended Sunday Mass in the Saint Krakus Cathedral, the lone place Angar had never been struck.

After, Simo fetched lunch for both.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He had his side job today, so he changed back into sweats, and made his way to the warehouse.

Most of the on-campus jobs available to older students were desk positions, but Angar wanted to build his strength while earning credits. He had pestered the Laymen working the warehouse until they finally gave in to the deal he proposed.

Saturday was the main delivery day, with the men straining their backs to sort and store everything. Sunday, as with most, was their day off.

The bargain Angar offered was that the workers wouldn't touch the Saturday deliveries, and he and Simo would handle all the sorting and storing on Sunday.

Twenty-four men worked the warehouse, each earning two credits a day. They agreed to pay Angar a quarter credit each, six credits in total, for taking on the task, and he split the earnings with Simo.

With only one arm, Simo couldn't lift much, but he guided Angar, directing him where to place the boxes and crates. Together, they powered through the work in under two hours.

With all that settled, Angar's thoughts drifted beyond the campus walls, to business needing doing in Erim.

He put on his Sunday formal attire again, including some large gloves to cover his monstrous hand.

"Why're you wearing that, Sir?" asked Simo, confused.

"I'm going into Erim today, Simo," Angar said.

"You really shouldn't be so informal with me, Sir. You're my master and I'm your servant. People will think you don't care for propriety. And no way you're going into Erim, Sir. Venerable Sister Kenson would have your head. You know it ain't allowed."

Angar met Simo's eyes, disappointed to see the old veteran turn his gaze downward. "She isn't here, and no one can stop me."

Nervously, Simo pressed, "Why risk it? What for? What if Heretics attack?"

"There are tasks I must handle."

"What tasks? I can handle them for you, Sir."

Wary the Heretics either had their own spy drones or a source within the Eyes, Angar said, "In three hours, meet me where you first tried taking your oldest for drinks when she last visited. Bring your wife."

Simo's protests faded as Angar strode out and ran to the campus exit. The guards knew he wasn't supposed to leave, but since he was now a legal adult, they couldn't stop him. He ran across the bridge into Erim.

As always, smog cloaked the city, its tang and haze somewhat reminiscent of Vefol.

Zanaya had less gravity than Terra, but imperial cities, towns, and villages always sat within a dome, allowing citizens to grow and live in a standardized environment, imposing Terra's norms on every world and station of the Holy Empire. Or Pleiadean, Reptiloid, and Gray standards on those species' worlds and stations.

The smog of Erim's factories and refineries were trapped in this dome, its filtration system always struggling to free the air of it, never succeeding.

Angar was certain he'd die soon, and, by Imperial Law, he was a full adult. He meant to take advantage of this today, while he lived.

He had memorized the city's maps long ago and swiftly navigated to the Voluvicas District. There, serfs, both women and some men, worked as prostitutes, blessed by Theosis to relieve the needs of those denied marriage, mainly Crusaders and clergy, gaining experience and credits each time someone spent a Voluvicas Credit on them.

He had earned plenty of these credits, though they'd remained hidden from his Annals until recently.

Even after losing all the ones he'd gained during the Shirdis eruption, he still had eight of them, and he didn't want to die a virgin.

When he arrived at the Voluvicas District, he was disappointed to see it was just a gaudy building with neon signs plastered all over its facade, and overly loud music spilled out from within.

He was expecting something grander, more glamourous, maybe something more intimate.

Inside, the noise hit him like a wall, the blaring music nearly deafening, and the air reeked of perfume, liquor, and sin.

A handful of women, all with their hair down, cascading around their shoulders, dressed very immodestly, none of whom he found remotely appealing, chatted and drank with various men, mostly clergymen. There were a few Knights and others here and there, scattered around the room too.

Then he spotted the face of a clergywoman he recognized leaning close to a man at the bar. The man looked normal enough, but Angar figured he had to be one of the prostitutes.

He tensed, worried the sister might notice him, but she only had eyes for the man beside her, oblivious to all else.

Near the entrance to the bar and lounge area stood a slate beneath a flickering neon sign that read "Offerings," with an arrow pointing down.

Angar scanned it. There were over a hundred women available, but none caught his eye. Most were either significantly older than him or simply unappealing. After looking through again, he settled on the one he found the least unattractive.

Having never done this, Angar was unsure what to do or expect, but, a minute later, an illicitly dressed woman approached him, vaguely resembling the image on the slate. Her forced smile couldn't hide the disappointment in her eyes when she saw her client.

"God and Empire, honey," she said, her tone sweet but practiced. "Wanna buy me a drink and chat first, or get straight to it, Sir Knight? You do have a Voluvicas Credit, right?"

"I don't," Angar replied, trying to keep his tone kind. He hoped the disappointment that had flickered in her eyes stemmed from his youth rather than how he was built. He wore gloves so knew it wasn't his hand.

Spirit had explained that the Holy Empire prized conformity and homogenization, as uniformity made things much simpler for Theosis, and was one of the reasons species rarely shared cities and stations, never mind worlds.

Angar stood out starkly from the mold imperials found attractive. He was broader than most, with thick, muscled limbs. People often remarked that his jaw and neck were unusually large, saying his face was overly masculine and far too rugged.

He wondered what they'd say if his back and neck still hunched as they once had, before the Vitaelux Apexium fixed his posture. Or if his complexion remained the ghostly pale it had been on Vefol, every inch of skin covered in burns and pockmarks. Or if his head weren't shaved, revealing the extremely thick, coarse, and dark hair his people evolved as a shield against high radiation and sulfuric acid.

The females of Vefol found him attractive, and that mattered far more to him.

He'd learned to recognize what most imperial citizens considered beautiful, and sometimes, now, he even agreed. But this woman before him, despite her image's promise, was far older than it had led him to believe.

He didn't want to die a virgin, but he at least needed to feel some attraction towards the woman he'd lose it to.

So, before the prostitute could respond, he turned and left, stepping back into the smog, the music fading behind him.

He hadn't lied. He had no Voluvicas Credit he'd spend on her.

The other task he needed to finish before his death mattered far, far more anyway.