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

As Angar and the Eyes of Providence troops fled, two soldiers lagged behind, struggling to support a wounded comrade.

Madame Lieutenant Commander Tianmi barked out, "Leave her! Keep moving!"

Her callous order was a stark reminder of why, no matter how much they helped him or how many times they saved him, he disliked the Eyes.

The Knight's Oath was clear, and it wasn't to abandon comrades in arms. He slowed his pace and scooped the abandoned soldier into the crook of his arm. Her weight was awkward, but he gripped his heavy power hammer and her, refusing to leave either.

Tianmi glanced back mid-stride, her helmet dipping in a curt nod of approval. Ahead, another soldier stumbled and fell, while others faltered, their steps growing sluggish.

Tianmi yelled out. "Keep moving! Leave those you must! Don't stop until the Sanctuary!"

She halted abruptly, lowering the two soldiers she carried to the ground. Then, she spun, blaster raised, aimed at the hulking Phasorax lumbering in pursuit.

Angar's opinion of her shifted as he set his own charges down beside hers.

"It's here for me," he said before running back toward the beast.

Tianmi's yells and protests rang out behind him, but she didn't follow. He tuned out her cries as his boots tore up the earth, charging forward.

The Phasorax barreled toward him like a monstrous arrow locked on a target. Angar pushed harder, closing the distance, ready to unleash Ground Current.

Just as he neared the Ability's range, the creature skidded to a halt and raised a crystalline-shard-studded hand.

Angar braced to evade a spell or whatever was sent at him, his muscles coiled and ready as he ran, but no attack came. Instead, an invisible force gripped him, pinning him in place. His body trembled violently, and a suffocating darkness swallowed his vision.

When awareness returned, he was no longer at the Cloisteranage. Or Zanaya.

The ground beneath him was shrouded in thick white mist, stretching endlessly in all directions. Above, a rust-red horizon glowered, devoid of sun, stars, or moon. The landscape was a barren void with no hills, no valleys, just mist and that sickly sky.

Far to his right, alone, stood a massive stone door, its surface etched with strange and alien runes.

Ahead of him, a grotesque purple-black mass pulsed and writhed, no larger than a child, but swelling rapidly.

Angar realized he was naked, his cybernetic arm gone, his power hammer missing, the Reliquary of Wrath ring stripped from his finger.

The growing mass oozed menace. Whatever it was, he wouldn't let it mature. He lunged forward, intent on tearing it apart with his monstrous hand, only to find his feet rooted in place.

He looked down, but his feet were swallowed by the mist, and he couldn't see what held them. He strained until his muscles burned, but he couldn't budge.

He triggered Ground Current. The familiar surge of power didn't come. Instead, a wave of nausea crashed over him, so intense he doubled over, with his head pressed to his knees. Sweat poured from his skin as he fought the urge to retch, and the world spun in sickening loops.

Long moments crawled by before the sickness ebbed. When he lifted his gaze, the mass had grown and transformed. It was an egg now, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Within it, a shadowy figure took shape, as the egg grew and pulsed. The shape became humanoid, roughly his size. Then a hand burst through the shell, followed by another, tearing the egg apart with brutal force.

A man stepped out, naked and slick with viscous residue, emerging from the shattered egg like an unholy birth.

This newly grown man was Angar, or a twisted mirror of him.

Long hair spilled past broad shoulders, a thick beard on its jaw, starkly unlike Angar's shaved scalp and face, the mark of every student of the Cloisteranage.

This other Angar stood whole, both arms flesh and unmarred, free of the monstrous forearms and clawed hands that defined Angar's below the elbows.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

It stared at him, the familiar eyes unnerving to look at. "Welcome to my realm, Angar," it said in a voice a perfect echo of his own.

"What are you?" Angar demanded.

"I am your death. Or your salvation." The figure's lips curled into a grim smile as it said these words.

"Or a fresh corpse," replied Angar. "Release my feet, and we'll see which."

The clone laughed, a mirror of Angar's own, but different somehow, a chilling sound that shook the misty void.

"You've got spirit," the clone said. "I like that. But no need to rush. We've all the time we need. Do you know who I am?"

"By the looks of it, a clone of me."

"For now, wearing this, here in my realm," said the thing. "But out there, in yours? You've heard of me. Your people name me Phasorax, ruler of the Chiron Refuge."

Angar had heard of that place. It was a Heretical Enclave in the Scutum-Centaurus Arm.

Heretics ruled half the world, the other half held by the Old Guard, a coalition of Reptiloids, Grays, and Pleiadeans, a faction blaming Terrans for Hellspawn invasions and resenting human dominance in the galaxy.

In 1453, during the Second Galactic War, the Old Guard had fought the Holy Empire to a standstill, forcing a negotiation with both them and Hell itself.

The result was the Ilarix Accords, a treaty dictating the rules of warfare, outlawing planetary destruction, and imposing limits that bound all sides.

Honoring its vow to never reveal what was hidden, Theosis only denied power to open Heretics and those identifiable as Heretic at a glance, including those who had replaced too much of their bodies with machinery.

Instead of from Theosis, many Heretics drew their strength from Hell's infernal might. Many didn't.

Though the Old Guard didn't worship or serve the powers of the infernal abyss, they refused Trinitarianism, and, thus, were Heretics.

They were empowered in other ways, profane tech, unconstrained by what tied Theosis' and imperial hands, such as monstrous gene-forging, turning them into hulking beasts, with obscene biomechanical enhancements utilizing nanites like demonic spells.

In battle, they merged minds in an unholy Neural Dominion, commanding vast armies of war machines alongside their warriors in towering, biomechanized suits, acting as one, supported by a navy boasting super-class ships superior to the Holy Empire's own.

The faithful held sway over roughly a quarter of the known galaxy, with a large presence in the six arms outside the core.

Beyond and within its borders, the unholy factions carved out their own territories, collectively controlling a little more than thirty percent of the galaxy, possibly forty, not counting the uninhabitable core.

"I've heard of Abyssal Tyrants," Angar admitted, "and the Chiron Refuge, but not Phasorax."

The clone laughed again, a cold, echoing sound. "I doubt that. Still, your people know little of me. They dubbed me 'Phasorax' because they believe I phase away, often taking one of their warriors with me, never to be seen again.

"And the term Abyssal Tyrant indicates I'm of Hell, as the others with this label are. I'm not, though I've allied with it now, and its fell power flows through me. Those your kind label Heretics found my husk on Chiron, a shattered remnant of the last cycle. With their infernal masters, they breathed new life into me."

As it spoke, the clone's form began to shift. Its frame stretched upward, growing a foot taller, muscles thickening with unnatural bulk. Its skin darkened, and scars bloomed across it like molten fissures, tinged with a blackened sheen as if scorched in some forge.

Jagged sapphire spines sprouted menacingly from its shoulders and back. Its arms, already powerful, swelled, ending in fists covered in crystalline shards pulsing with a strange violet light.

The face, while still Angar's at its core, twisted, half-obscured by a mane of coarse, ash-streaked hair, while its eyes flared like twin pyres, burning with a wild, unhinged intensity.

When the transformation settled, it loosed a laugh. It was a deep roar, like the Phasorax at the Cloisteranage, laced with a primal wrath and madness that shook the misty ground.

"This," it said in a new rumbling voice, "is how I once forged minions to serve me."

Then the change continued. Its veins glowed a venomous green beneath its skin. Thick and gnarled black horns curled from its skull. Long and razor-sharp claws erupted from its fingers, glinting like obsidian.

Leathery bat-like wings unfurled from its back, spiderwebbed with veins pulsing with that same green hue. Its mouth stretched wide, splitting as massive fangs forced their way through, dripping with acrid smoke.

The twin pyres of its eyes alit with green flames, while a thin whip-like tail lashed behind it, tipped with a barbed stinger.

"I bent the knee to new masters," it said in a new voice, now a guttural growl. "Dark forces that allow me to strengthen my minions with new fell power. I command thousands, including a few of your precious Saints.

"You're only at the first Tier of power. Weak, pathetic, nearly useless, but I've been ordered to claim you. Make you my own. This body will step through that door," it gestured to the stone slab in the distance, "back to my kingdom on Chiron.

"Bind yourself to me willingly and you can have this improved form of yours. You'll keep most of your mind intact too. Refuse, and your consciousness dies."

It paused, tilting its head as if savoring the moment. "I'd prefer a stronger minion, so I'd rather you submit. But I also relish a fight, and in my realm, victory is effortless. Neither of us will be able to use your Abilities, not while here, so it will be a straight up brawl.

"As you Crusaders are nothing without your armor and firearms, choose wisely and know this – though this form started as just your clone, its strength is amplified by both my domain and the infernal abyss."

The Phasorax stepped closer, those flaming eyes boring into him. "And know this too – your false faith betrays you here, and I don't mean your Abilities being blocked.

"Reach inside yourself. Feel it. Your God hates you. He despises you. Here, your false faith is a poison. That empty space you once believed was your God's love, now saps your strength, weakening you here.

"Your only chance of salvation lies in binding yourself to me, claiming this body I control as your own, becoming one of my many minions."