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

THE SACROSANCT FORGING

Aspirants surviving these grim and hallowed trials undergo two ancient sacred rites:

Bones of the Rakshasa: A ritual that renders their skeletal system as unyielding as the faith they hold, making once brittle bones nearly invulnerable to physical trauma.

Blessing of Samson: Enhancing their strength and endurance significantly, a sanctified ritual embodying the might of those blessed by God Himself.

The five victorious aspirants lingered in the hallway they were told to wait in, the air around them still thick with their sweat and the Crucible's fetid aftermath.

Angar waited apart, flexing his furred hands absently.

Of the four others, he knew only one. His name was Tancred, a sneering noble with a perpetual smirk, once a lackey to Leopold, and son of a Marquis ruling a major station in a nearby system.

Saint Krakus Cloisteranage had long been where the star cluster's elite sent their children at eleven years of age. Until Angar's arrival, at least.

The other three were all Cloisteranage-born.

The three boys clustered together, muttering in low tones. Tancred gave Angar sidelong glances dripping with disdain.

Across the hall, the lone girl stood, her twiggy frame stretched in the imperial way, a stark contrast to Vefol's stout women. Her wide and gray eyes were filled with curiosity, darting toward him, lingering longer than decorum allowed.

Male and female students were mostly forbidden to speak, but she seemed poised to anyway. As they were no longer students, but graduates, and now survivors of the Grim Ordeals, the old rules no longer applied.

Angar caught himself hoping she would speak to him as a small bead of heat grew in his chest, even considering her fragile beauty was so alien to his Vefol's ideal.

When she didn't, shame gnawed at him for being disappointed, leaving him wondering how he could ever find these stretched-out twig-woman attractive anyway, as if he was betraying the women of his world, and his people as a whole.

A sister approached in a fancier habit than usual. She ushered the five aspirants through a chamber of polished obsidian with walls etched with spiraling prayers. An almost overwhelming sent of incense and metal hung in the air.

They were deposited into a side room, the door was locked behind them. A few minutes later, Angar was retrieved first. When he exited, he was ordered to undress before dozens of sisters, and his face burned with embarrassment as he complied.

The rites began with the Bones of the Rakshasa. Strapped to a slab cold as a crypt, Angar clenched his fists as sisters encircled him, beginning a strange chant, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of a drum and the plucking of a psaltery.

Mechanical arms descended, wielding syringes long as his forearm, the needles filled with a viscous, silver-black fluid he had heard was essence distilled from relics, the bones of ancient saints, and fused with anointed alloys.

As the sisters sang louder, he braced himself as the needles plunged into his body, each jab like a lance of ice and fire, burrowing deep into his marrow.

His bones groaned, shifting and cracking as they thickened and hardened, like steel tempering under a forge's hammer, remaking his frame into a Holy bulwark.

He gritted his teeth, enduring as sweat beaded on his brow. Sacred oils splashed across his chest with sharp stenches stinging his nostrils, and a faint glow enveloped him.

The chanting swelled, the drum thundered, the psaltery strummed, and then it all suddenly ended, and there was only silence. The glow faded, and the pain with it.

When the straps released, he stood. His legs were unsteady at first, heavier, his steps thudding with newfound solidity.

He wasn't given a moment to adjust. He was grabbed by the arm and escorted to the other half of the room for the Blessing of Samson.

There was no slab this time, but a hulking machine. It looked like a reliquary, except covered with pistons and glowing vials, humming in a strange way that sounded like the haunting melody of an evil choir.

Different sisters surrounded him, including a really old one he knew. She'd been one of his tutors for Imperial Law. They anointed him with new oils reeking of myrrh and blood while tracing runes across his chest and limbs. As they sang a fervent psalm at a frantic pace, the machine clamped onto his shoulders.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Without any warning, strange tendrils whipped out, piercing his muscles, injecting a golden liquid into him, and it burned like molten steel.

A vision flared in his mind of a lion's head, roaring with Divine wrath. His sinews swelled, his veins bulged, and strength surged through him, roaring in his blood.

The sisters' hands moved madly, almost feverishly, rubbing a gritty salve across his skin as their song became just barbaric yips and cries, peaking as a radiant glow enveloped him, then vanished along with the chanting, and the pain too.

He took in a deep breath and felt his endurance coiling tight, ready to go, waiting to loose the Lord's wrath upon His many enemies.

And that was it. A sister guided him out, and he exited the rites exalted, a vessel of new power, led to another side room, this one empty, and told to wait.

He summoned his Annals, the display lighting up the dimness. From the Bones of the Rakshasa, he obtained 1 Body and 3 Toughness. From the Blessing of Samson, 3 Physique and 2 Endurance, the same for all Crusaders who received these rites.

Aspirants are then augmented with three mandatory implants:

Neurvux: A neural network that not only interfaces with their own nervous system and augmented biology, but also external systems. Nine interconnected nodes are placed throughout their body, allowing connection to objects such as the sacred arms and armaments of the Crusaders.

Infernus Oculus: An eye that sees through the darkness, and a doughty aid in spotting illusions cast by the foul spawns of Hell.

Somnoregulator: An implant that allows aspirants to forgo much sleep, their vigil eternal, their alertness exalted.

Later, once all had finished the rites, the group, led by a silent sister, shuffled through the Sanctum to another side room.

Angar was the last to be called this time. New sisters awaited, in a sterile sanctum of white steel, an operating table, bloody buckets, and machinery covered with flashing diodes, these ones wearing pristine scrubs over habits, clutching surgical tools gleaming with menace.

Sitting on the table, he was given some injection numbing his body but leaving his mind sharp.

The implants came in turn. First came the Neurvux. Angar lay on the table as a drill whirred, boring nine precise holes in his skull, spine, chest, and limbs. Tiny nodes, pulsing with green light, were embedded, threading into his nerves like roots into soil.

A jolt arced through him as it activated. His mind sharpened as the network finished syncing, linked flesh with machine, providing a lattice for connection to sacred armaments.

He flexed his hand, almost feeling the network alive within him.

Next came the Infernus Oculus. A sister pried his left eye wide. A terrifying tool flashed in her hand before carving out his eye. He couldn't really see what she did next, but it looked like she shoved stuff into the socket.

Then she dangled a new orb veined with circuitry above his face, shoving it in until it clicked into place.

After it activated, it booted up, showing various messages along with a progress bar. Once done, his vision finally cleared and whirred into focus.

"Look at this," demanded the sister, holding up a blank piece of paper. "What do you see?"

"A piece of paper," he replied.

"Do you see anything on it? An outline? A dim shape of something infernal?"

"No."

"Good," she said, placing the paper down. "You can see through basic illusions now."

He blinked, getting used to his new eye.

Last came the Somnoregulator. The procedure felt almost mundane after the others. It went quickly. A thick tube sank into the back of his neck, injecting something that hummed and buzzed softly as it activated, then went silent and still.

And that was that. He exhaled, the weight of his transformation settling, his body and mind granted all the power the Grim Ordeals had to give.

Angar opened his screens again. He knew, like with the Grim Ordeals and rites, not all the benefits were reflected in his Annals, but he still liked seeing his numbers go up.

The Neurvux increased his Mind by 3 and his Competence by 2. The Infernus Oculus increased Cognizance by 4. The Somnoregulator increased Cognizance and Endurance by 2.

The others all stood outside the room, in the hallway, now augmented, waiting on him.

Sisters came and gestured for them to follow. His led him back through shadowed corridors to his cell, surprising him by speaking in a low voice outside it. "God and Empire, Sir Angar. There's a Mass and celebration in Saint Krakus Cathedral for the other four later today. The Eyes aren't letting you go. They're keeping you here until tomorrow evening, when you're off to Our Blessed Mother Cathedral in Erim, where all of Zanaya's new Crusaders will undergo the Anointing together."

"Thank you, Sister," he replied. He already assumed he wouldn't be allowed to go to the special Mass, though he had been required to attend it every month since arriving here.

He thought about asking her to deliver his cybernetic arm to Simo, but figured it was safest to do it himself.

The young sister offered him a small smile. "Congratulations, Sir. I know you're already a Holy Knight, but I wanted to say it all the same. Sorry, but I must lock you in still, for propriety's sake."

Angar nodded and stepped into the cell. The door clanging shut behind him, the lock's click a final note in the day's trials.

His chest filled with excitement.

He had waited far too long for this.

Far too long.

Ascension awaited, a precipice he'd peaked at the very beginning of his journey.

Every word of Spirit's teachings had taken root. She'd trained him well before abandoning him for her pacifist drivel, deeming enemies as innocent lives among other peace-loving foolishness.

His core had had a long time to settle and firm, nearly a year and a half, tempered by daily cycling, prayer, and meditations, mostly as she'd instructed with her own methods.

He knew two paths to ascending his core. There was the Cloisteranage's doctrine and Spirit's way.

Ascension to the second Tier granted 1 to Adroitness and 2 to all three Attributes, but it was known there was more to it than that. Ascendents received a Glorious Achievement, and Theosis' message and Glory Points award proved it was tied to how well ascension went.

And there were plenty of records of those claiming variance. Some gained less, an Attribute or two stunted at 1 instead of 2. Rarely, others claimed more, a rare increase of 3.

He'd find the truth of it soon enough. He planned on ascending as if the blessed Mother herself had taught him how.

Because she had.