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

Angar roamed Erim's unfamiliar streets, taking in sights he'd heard of but never seen, soaking up the city's pulse as he bided time before meeting Simo.

He'd chosen the spot because his servant had said it was an empty and very uninviting front, likely masking operations for the Netherweb Syndicate.

That galaxy-spanning network stretched its tendrils throughout imperial space and far beyond, one of three major and feared criminal powers alongside the Brothers' Pact and Underreign. Most feared them too much to cross them.

Leopold had graduated and survived the Grim Ordeals a few months back. No attacks had come from him or his father since.

Angar may not have to fear an attack from that vector, but just in case, he doubted Duke Maximillian would dare strike a syndicate haven.

The Heretics were another matter. He knew little of their ties, but the Heretical Enclaves and their worlds leaned on these organizations for supplies. Crossing the Netherweb, or earning its wrath, was a line he doubted they'd cross, not just to get at Angar here and now.

He believed the false restaurant and pub was the safest ground he could meet with Simo's wife.

As the time neared, he made his way there and approached the entrance. Simo lingered outside with a woman, obviously his wife, both scanning the street rather than waiting within.

Angar waved to them before stepping inside. The place was empty of patrons, save for a table of rough-edged men in fine clothes worn over light armor, their bulk dwarfing most Laymen, even Simo, a grizzled veteran of nearly forty years and Tier 3.

The tension hung thick, and their stares were cold and clearly unwelcoming.

Angar nodded at them, picking a seat with eyes on that table full of men, the kitchen doors, and the entrance.

Simo peeked in, nervousness clearly etched on his face, as one of the men stood. "We're closed!" he barked loudly with a voice edged with grit. "Is it Knight? You've got the height."

Angar rose smoothly. "Yes. Sir Lord Angar," he replied, claiming the generic title all nobility could use, which he usually forsook. "Closed or not, my friends and I will have a meeting at this table."

The man's brows knotted as he walked over. "No, you won't. We're closed. I'm trying to be polite here, considering our great respect for Crusaders. If you wanted to throw your weight around, you should've worn your armor. All you got is a hammer. You'd be riddled with holes before it swung once. Your friend's wise to stay out. Be wise like him."

He jabbed a finger at the door. "Out."

"I wasn't done," Angar said, locking eyes with the man. "I'm the son of Baraga, last king of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch, descendant of Elaxada the Mighty, Mahtma the Conqueror, and the great Kondunean Emperor Xon Gheir the First.

"I pray you attack me. The Lord thirsts. I'll cave your skulls in, slake His want, and count your organization among my enemies."

As Angar spoke, he could see the man tense, fearful, struggling to maintain eye contact.

"Decide quickly, battle or peace, so I can get on with my day," added Angar. "Either way, I'm having a meeting at this table. If your answer is peace, I won't pay you for this favor, but I'll owe your organization one myself."

The man's posture became awkward, tensing more, almost flinching as he broke eye contact. One of the older men at the far table called out. "We're loyal imperial citizens, happy to let this Knight have his meeting here for a future favor. But the kitchen and bar stay closed, and he's only got an hour."

Angar nodded, and the relieved man went back to his friends. As Angar sat, he waved in Simo.

The veteran entered, still wary, trailed by his wife, a plump, middle-aged woman with sandy-blonde hair in modest, threadbare clothes.

Angar smiled, taking her hand in his own briefly. She smiled widely and said, "God and Empire! Veerta. Nice to finally meet you, Sir. Your generosity has helped our family so, so much. We're so grateful. Grateful beyond words, Sir," as she took a seat across from him.

"I don't know if Simo told you my father was a king," Angar told the woman. "When he met with a man, as I am now with Simo, he always invited the family. I know your daughter, Mari, lives on planet, in Ur-sag, but time didn't permit her presence."

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With his eyes squinting, Simo asked, "What's this about, Sir? I'd rather not have my family involved with you and the danger it could place them in."

"Understood," Angar replied. "It wouldn't have been hard for my enemies to find your family before now. Not once have you or Venerable Sister Kenson been targeted or attacked away from me. The risk is being attacked while with me, and I believe we're safe enough here. Far safer than in the rectory."

That out of the way, it was time to get to the point. "My arm will be regrown during the Grim Ordeals, so I won't need my implant soon. It, my hammer, and all I own will pass to you when I join a Knightly Chapter, where I'll receive Crusader Armor and a finer weapon."

With his regeneration, without the prosthetic implant preventing it, his arm would eventually regrow, but it'd take a very long time. One of the ordeals would regrow it immediately.

Angar knew Simo and Veerta spent little on themselves, pouring every credit into their children and grandchildren, mostly to ease the weight of debt.

The Holy Empire had many institutions of advanced education for its sharpest citizens, like Atrium Operis schools, where crafters and mechanics honed skills for the Filii Artis Lay Order.

The Filii Ordinis Lay Order, cradle to many elite professions like legal scholars, physicians, and administrators, ran a network of Aula Structurae academies.

Those academies laid the groundwork, a brutal hurdle before Pinaculum Ordinis institutes accepted students, and graduation from one rarer still, producing true masters of a profession.

Tuition was a loan tied to merit. The top 1% paid back just 1% of schooling costs, the top 2% repaid 2%, the 50th repaying half, down to the bottom 100th percentile owing all 100%.

Simo believed this debt was to chain the ambitious, ensuring obedience to an Empire thriving on control.

His youngest, Jon, had not only secured a place in a Pinaculum Ordinis, but was nearing graduation, an astonishing triumph overshadowed by the crushing debt awaiting him.

Expected to rank in the bottom 90th percentile, he'd face a staggering loan, piled atop the already heavy burden from his Aula Structurae graduation.

It was a feat to swell any parent's chest with pride, but the debt yoking their son weighed heavily on that pride.

As Angar opened his mouth to press on with his message, Veerta surged to her feet, her chair clattering backward, tears brimming in her wide, almost frantic eyes.

"Thank you, Sir Angar!" she cried out with a raw, near-scream of gratitude, just as Simo barked out, "Absolutely not!" with a face creased with anger, etched deep with lines of defiance.

Veerta's gaze snapped to her husband. The spark of joy in her expression withered to a crushed and hollow dejection. She swiped at her tears with a trembling hand and sank back into her seat, the silence between the couple stretching heavy and awkward.

Angar turned his eyes to Simo, his brow furrowed in confusion.

With a firm but almost frayed voice, Simo said, "You already split the credits from loot, and you shouldn't. You hand me half the warehouse pay when I can't even lift a damned box. Let me have some pride, Sir. I'm not a man needing pity or handouts. I provide for my own. I'm no beggar. And you can't march off to fight as a Crusader with nothing. I'm grateful for the offer, Sir, but no. Absolutely not."

Angar understood the man's stance, the dignity and pride woven into his refusal.

But he hadn't finished his statement. Also, he hadn't planned on admitting his true beliefs, but it looked like Simo left him no choice.

"I never explained why my father brought families to these meetings," he said. "It was so they'd witness their husband or father honored for worthy and loyal service. You've served me well, Simo, beyond what words can repay. I'll honor you in the way of my people, as my father had. And I won't lie. I believe I'll be killed during the Grim Ordeals, specifically by a Heretical attack while I'm incapacitated in the Psygistrion for two weeks.

"I have no kin left. I'm certain the Lord wants you to have my possessions and arm implant. But you must wear it, Simo, not sell it, and promise me that. And my fief on Vefol…I mean Sulfuron 9, will pass to you or one of your children. Jon can steward the land. As you stated before, many nobles, especially noble Crusaders, often have administrative specialists appointed as stewards."

After long and tense seconds, Simo's stern mask softened, his eyes filling with something tender and unguarded. Veerta's gaze locked onto her husband's, brimming with hope, a silent plea hanging in the air.

With a rough but resolute voice, the veteran replied, "Well, as you said, I'm a good servant, so we'll just ensure you don't die during the Grim Ordeals. Not unless the ordeals themselves get you. I'll work with the Eyes of Providence to ensure you don't. And you told me the Lord only wants tithes of blood and battle, so how could He want me to have your implant?"

Angar grunted. "Maybe not Him, then. Maybe the blessed Mother, or Holy Theosis. I lost the same arm you lack. I'll soon die or regrow it, and have no need for something you have a great need for. That coincidence feels too fated to dismiss."

Instead of answering, Simo sat motionless.

Angar watched as the man fought a losing battle, his fortress of pride and will crumbling under the weight of his family's dire need. His eyes glistened, pooling with unshed tears, his jaw clenched tight to hold them back.

But the quiver in his lip betrayed him, trembling fiercely as the flood breached its dam. His face finally crumpled, and a raw and broken sob tore free.

Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks, showing the pain of a man that had suffered silently, pridefully, his whole life, trying to do right by his faith, his Empire, and, especially, his family.

He was unable to bear being complimented in such a way, his service and sacrifices not only noticed, but openly recognized, and in front of his wife, deemed worthy of reward, a thing so rare for good men like him, it overwhelmed him.

Veerta, seeing her husband's walls collapse, took it as his assent. She rose with a choked gasp, crossed to Angar, and threw her arms around him.

Loud and unrestrained sobs erupted, shaking her frame as she clung to him. "Thank you, Sir Angar!" she wailed. Her voice cracked with every word, thick with relief. "Thank you so much!"

Her cries sounded like an anguished and joyful hymn intertwined, her tears soaking into his shoulder as she held him like a lifeline, her gratitude a force as fierce as any war cry.

Angar felt a presence he hadn't felt in a while. He looked around, expecting to see Spirit, but saw nothing.