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

As the Phasorax reared back, raising a bulbous and clawed foot to crush him, Angar realized he flinched cravenly, his hand held out to block the foot in a way that seemed like pathetic pleading, the weak act of a beggar, praying for mercy, to be spared this blow.

A great wave of shame flooded his chest.

He could almost hear his father's voice, shamed, dripping with disappointment, telling him he was Mecian, the son of a great king, to act as one, and to never dishonor his ancestors and legacy.

A memory surged unbidden, the only time his father became angry with him.

He was seven or eight imperial years, and his father had come to visit. His back was raw from his mother's switch, bloody welts fresh from training, showing Baraga how well his son tolerated pain.

Angar had stood completely silent during the switching, taking each lash like it was nothing, thinking himself strong.

The next day, King Baraga returned from a hunt with a d'klar in tow, a young one, its scales just beginning to glow with bioluminescence.

"Kill it," Baraga ordered, tossing Angar two obsidian daggers. Laka protested, but her king's glare silenced her.

Angar, wincing, confused, fearful, nervously faced the beast, pain flaring with every move. It was young, but its fangs were still long, its claws still sharp.

The d'klar pounced, not giving him a choice in the matter. He fought poorly, whimpering as each movement agonizingly pulled at all the scabbed welts littering his back, choking on fear.

Claws and fangs tore into him, blood flowed, but he somehow managed to kill the beast.

Angar collapsed atop its corpse with his chest heaving, both in relief and exhaustion, worse pain growing as adrenaline faded.

But he had won! He had shown his father his mettle!

"Stand!" Baraga roared with eyes filled with fury. Angar staggered up confusedly, blood dripping from his wounds.

"You took a great switching without a whimper," his father said, "but when put to battle, all you did was whine and cry out like a woman. Laka failed to teach you the most important lesson in life – pride.

"Mecians don't whine and whimper because of pride, not this training your mother gives you. We honor our ancestors, their battles, their glory, all they had suffered and sacrificed to bring us here, and we refuse to shame them. Pride, both in ourselves and our history. Our life is war, and pride drives us ever onward, lethal, unbowed until death.

"When you battle, pride keeps you focused, knowing you are Mecian, superior to all others, blessed by the Great Lord. And as pride grants focus, pain provides clarity. It feeds your fire, and lets you learn. It grows your pride, paving your path toward dying well and Qitakai."

Young Angar knelt in his blood, the lesson burned into him.

Pain was nothing. Injuries were nothing.

Pride was everything.

Angar's faith hadn't been poisoned. It hadn't twisted to betray him in this strange realm. He was just fighting a clone of himself. It was enhanced by the Phasorax's own accursed power, as well as that of the infernal abyss, but it was still Tier 1, the same as him.

And this clone wasn't Mecian.

He was squandering this chance to reap glory from a grand foe, proving he was superior to all others. All he had done so far was shame himself and his ancestors.

And that shame charred him like a brand. It seared through his chest, mingling with all the righteous hate he carried, a molten fire that burned hotter than his wounds. It scorched away the fog in his mind, the pain sharpening his senses with blistering clarity.

No more of this, he thought.

Maybe he'd die, but not yet, and not like this, so feebly. He'd die with pride intact, shrouded in glory, after having given this beast a battle like none other.

The Phasorax's foot descended with claws glinting. Angar rolled towards his clone, twisting his battered body with desperate force, his exposed intestines scraping against the mist-covered ground.

He aimed to crash into the beast's other leg, to bring it crashing down, but the clone reacted swiftly, beating its wings with a gust that lifted it briefly off the ground. Angar's roll passed harmlessly beneath, only leaving mist swirling in his wake.

He scrambled upright on trembling legs.

Trembling, but defiant. He shook his head hard to clear it, sending blood and sweat flying. His vision cleared just in time to spot a massive fist swinging in a vicious hook.

Angar dropped low, rolling under the strike, and came up behind the beast. He leapt onto its back, wrapping its waist with his legs, hooking his claws into a wing. The leathery membranes tore under his grip, and the Phasorax howled, thrashing to shake him off.

Its tail whipped up, the barb slashing across and piercing his back, but he ignored it, and clung on, raking his talons down its back, shredding flesh and snapping one of the sapphire spines clean off.

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The beast bucked violently with its wings beating in a frenzy. The ground quaked beneath them, cracks splintering through the mist as the realm groaned under their fury.

It hurled Angar over its shoulder, and he hit the ground rolling, skidding through the mist, his cuts and bruises flaring with new pain.

With his chest heaving, he pushed to his feet as the Phasorax turned, its back a ruin of gore, one wing hanging limp. It bared its fangs in a snarl as green flames flared brighter in its eyes, and charged with a limping gait, favoring its torn leg.

Angar met it head-on, ducking a wild swing and slashing his talons across its chest again. The Phasorax sent a knee to his gut, too fast to avoid, doubling him over, then grabbed his head with one massive and clawed hand, yanking it back to expose his throat.

Its fangs descended, but Angar twisted, sinking his own teeth into the creature's bicep. He bit down hard, tasting bitter ichor, and tore his mouth free, spitting out flesh as the Phasorax recoiled with a hiss, releasing him.

Angar got back on his feet, and they circled each other now, both bloodied, both unrelenting. The Phasorax's tail lashed out again, but Angar caught it mid-lash, wrapping it around his arm despite the barbs cutting into his flesh.

He yanked hard, pulling the beast off-balance, toward him, and slashed his claws across its face savagely, gouging an eye, extinguishing its green flame in a burst of sizzling fluid.

The Phasorax shrieked, groping at its ruined socket, and Angar pressed the attack, slashing his talons across its ribs, its gut, its throat, and anywhere he could reach.

The beast swung blindly, its crystalline fist catching him in the chest. The blow sent him flying, releasing the tail, the air driven from his lungs.

He landed hard, skidding across the mist, a strand of intestine pushed further out of his guts. He struggled to rise, every one of his muscles screaming for him to stop.

The Phasorax advanced, one-eyed, bleeding rivers, a wing dragging uselessly, one arm hanging at its side. It walked toward him, snarling, ready to finish it, the mist almost throbbing, the realm trembling in sync with its rage.

"You're tougher than most," it rasped with a voice both ragged and gleeful. "But this was always going to end the same for you."

Angar spat blood and forced himself up, swaying on his feet. "Maybe," he said, then spat out more blood.

The Phasorax loosed a guttural and unhinged laugh as it lunged again. Angar sidestepped, slower now, and slashed at its good arm. His talons carved deep, but the beast pivoted, slamming its bulk into him.

They crashed together, a chaotic tangle of limbs and fury, tumbling across the mist-slick ground. As they rolled, man and unholy clone hammered at each other with single-minded savagery, Angar with his clawed fist, the Phasorax with its crystalline-studded one, over and over and over again.

They came to a shuddering stop, locked in a brutal stalemate, still pounding away. Roars of rage and fury tore from their throats, blood spraying with each blow. Neither would yield, their bodies growing slick with gore, their faces swollen and split, but the fire in their eyes burned undimmed.

The Phasorax broke first, its fist faltering, and Angar took that as a fleeting victory. But the beast surged upward, knocking him back, straddling him in an instant. Its crushing weight pinned him to the earth, driving the breath from his lungs. Claws raked down his chest, shredding skin in crimson ribbons, welling hot ichor in gushes.

Angar bellowed, his pride and fury drowning the pain. He plunged his talons into the Phasorax's side, twisting with every ounce of strength left in his battered frame.

The beast howled, jerking back and rolling off, then Angar scrambled atop it, straddling its chest now. He rained down rakes with his taloned hand, slash after slash, tearing through flesh and muscle.

The Phasorax thrashed beneath him, its tail whipping up to strike. Angar caught it again, twisted it around, and sank into his clone's throat.

Dark blood gushed, coating his hand, and the creature's struggles weakened, its snarls fading to gurgles.

But it wasn't done. With a surge of strength, the Phasorax threw him off, rising unsteadily. Its neck was a mangled wreck, one eye gone, one wing shredded, but it still grinned, its fangs dripping blood along with smoke. "You fight like a beast, a worthy son of a king," it croaked through its ruined throat as it staggered forward. "It's a shame I have to kill you."

Trembling with exhaustion, Angar stood, charging one last time. He ducked a feeble swipe, jumped, grabbed the Phasorax's horn, and yanked its head down. His knee smashed under its jaw, knocking its head back, shattering fangs.

The beast lashed out, backhanding Angar, sending him tumbling, then straightened and stumbled back, unsteady on its feet.

Angar rushed in, his arm shooting out brutally, his claws ripping through its slashed-up chest, deep into its core. His talons found the heart, and with a roar of triumph, he crushed it in his fist.

The Phasorax shuddered as a low groan escaped its wrecked throat, and collapsed, its massive form crashing into the mist with a thunderous thud.

Angar stood over his enemy, his chest heaving, covered in blood. The mist swirled around the fallen beast, its green flames now extinguished, its crystal no longer shining a violet light, its body still.

He muttered something unintelligible meant as a gloat, then turned, looking at the stone door in the distance, figuring that was his only way out of this accursed realm.

If it opened to Chiron, he was as good as dead. A lone man couldn't stand against a Heretical Enclave. Still, he'd like to take as many of the unholy abominations there with him as he could.

He glanced down at his wounds, probing for anything he might staunch or bind. He could barely see out of his eyes, couldn't breathe through his shattered nose, his mouth was a mess, a cord of intestines spilled from his gut as more poked out, blood oozed from the gashes across his chest, his bitten shoulder throbbed with every breath, and a hundred other wounds and aches.

He didn't get far in his tally before the ground beneath him shuddered violently. The tremor threw him off balance, and his legs buckled. He crashed to his knees as mist billowing around him.

The quaking intensified, jolting his battered frame as if the realm itself were unraveling.

An invisible force seized him, a familiar grip, like the Phasorax's earlier pull, clamping tight around his core. His body trembled uncontrollably, his bones rattled, and a suffocating darkness surged over his vision, swallowing him whole.

When the world snapped back into focus, he was sprawled on the solid and dust-covered earth of the Cloisteranage, not the misty void.

He lay exactly where he'd stood before the Phasorax had torn him away, lights trained on him, wind and deafening noises all buffeting him.

Not far away, the true Phasorax shimmered into existence, the massive form phasing into being. It loomed like a falling colossus, flickering in and out of existence like a dying flame.

Then it solidified and crumpled toward the ground. When its crystalline bulk slammed into the dirt, the impact shook the earth with a bone-rattling crash, kicking up a cloud of debris and dust.

It lay lifeless, dead.

Angar assumed the clone's defeat must've destroyed its realm, killing its true form.

He heard loud gasps and a ruckus behind him, pulling his attention. He turned his head, wincing as pain lanced through his neck and battered body.

The sky bristled with ships and vehicles, dozens of them hovering in formation, kicking up wind and a cacophony of noise.

Below, well over a hundred Crusaders were dug in, fully armored with weapons primed, alongside what seemed to be every Knight of the Eyes.

Angar figured this was nearly every Crusader stationed or visiting Erim Sector, summoned to face the Phasorax's return.

The few uncovered faces were twisted in confusion as they stared at the beast's corpse.

Then, a System message from Holy Theosis scrawled itself into Angar's eyes.