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

A soft knock shattered the silence, followed by the cell door clanged open with a hollow thud.

A silent sister hovered at the threshold, her gray robes fading into the dimness of the hall like a specter, interrupting his prayer-meditation, though it was mainly thinking about how he'd test his new strength and Ability, Lightning Strike.

"God and Empire, brother," Charitut called out, striding in with his helm tucked under one arm, his auto-blaster slung over his shoulder. In his gauntleted fist, he clutched a slate and a folded leaflet.

"God and Empire," Angar replied, rising from the cold stone floor with joints stiff from hours of stillness.

Charitut's boots rang against the stones as he quickly closed the distance. "Congratulations on surviving the Grim Ordeals and ascension. It suits you. I heard about your new hands. You're a strange one, brother."

He handed over the slate and leaflet with a smirk. "Commander Wallace sends these. The slate's got a message. And Lieutenant Commander Tianmi says those Phasorax trinkets were confiscated. If she hears more, you'll know."

Angar nodded, accepting the items, curious about the unexpected message. The leaflet was a standard chapter pitch. Most of them had one, and he'd looked through them all before.

Out of courtesy, he read through it. It had the usual content of storied history, focus, the perks of membership such as gear, implants, rites, mods unlocked at specific Tiers, and stipend details.

Once done, he set it aside and turned his attention to the slate.

It powered on, displaying Duke Maximillian's seal.

The screen displayed an invoice, a tally of costs tied to Angar's presence on Zanaya. Extra security for Erim and its ports, extending across the entire planet, spanning a year and four months.

Even future expenses were listed for the Anointing at Our Blessed Mother Cathedral. The total at the bottom stated he owed the Maximillian over twenty million credits.

A Vitaelux Apexium utilized resources even rarer than the neutronium pellets the Lux Aeterna drives used for FTL travel, inlcuding as strange-quark-matter powder, axion-condensate crystals, and hyperon-lattice shards.

A brief immersion in a tank cost at least three million credits. His prolonged stay, and all it did for him, likely neared twenty million credits. Three million or twenty, both were sums so high, only the lucky few would ever see the inside of a tank.

Besides Knightly Chapters funded directly by Holy Theosis, only the Holy Empire's high nobles and galaxy-spanning corporate titans could afford such luxury.

His Hedge Knight stipend was 87 credits monthly, and that amount was only due to being bolstered slightly by his Minor Gentry rank.

Kenson, who oversaw all Cloisteranages in Zanaya's Erim Sector, received a much smaller stipend than he did. Lay workers in the Liberi Humiles averaged about 50 credits a month.

Twenty million credits was a fortune beyond imagination, let alone repayment.

Hot and righteous fury ignited within him. "Can I reply to this?" he asked Charitut, proud his voice was calm and emotionless.

"As long as it's clear it's from you, not Commander Wallace, I'm sure it's fine," the Knight replied.

Kenson had always barred him from responding to Duke Maximillian, but now he finally could. Furiously, his fingers flew across the slate.

"My father was a king. Your Lay rank means nothing to me. I spit on your name and that of your milksop son, Leopold. I claim you owe me thirty million credits. This message serves as your invoice. Pay your debt, and I'll settle yours. Until then, I uphold my oath to slaughter Hell's forces in Holy War, not live a soft and pampered life in retirement. I name you oath-breaker. I'll crush your coward heart in my fist.

Sir Angar"

He paused with his thumb hovering over send, a flash of caution warning him against further provoking this man.

Then he scolded himself for the hesitation, and the imperial sensibilities poisoning his reasoning, tainting his blood, brining dishonor to his ancestors.

In Mecia, if his father had treated anyone as Maximillian and Leopold had treated Angar, honor would demand blood, a fight to the death, as was right for any good man with pride in his chest.

That same truth held here in the Holy Empire as it did in Mecia, or any other world, despite what the cowardly had to say about it.

He pressed send, welcoming whatever reprisal the coward sent his way, thankful for any new opportunity to battle, and offer up fresh tribute to the Lord.

THE ANOINTMENT

In the storied halls of one of our grand Cathedrals, where the echo of battle chants reverberates through the stone, the aspirants partake in the sacred rite known as the Anointment. This is no mere ceremony; it is a confirmation of faith and glory, where the chosen are blessed by the Holy oils of the Three's own will and sanctity. Anointed with these sacred essences, their flesh becomes a vessel for the Holy Empire's will, their souls armored against the darkness of Hell.

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Upon completion of this hallowed ceremony, they emerge not as mere mortals, but as true Holy Knights, ready for martyrdom and their names to be inscribed in the Litany of Heroes. They stand ready to pledge their undying loyalty to the ranks of the myriad Knightly Chapters, each a bulwark against unholy darkness, each a beacon of our glorious Holy Empire's undying resolve, each waging eternal Holy War against the evil spawn of Hell.

The Eyes of Providence escorted Angar from the Sanctuary the next evening, his first time outside since entering its walls.

He donned a strange, coarse tunic they'd pressed into his hands, then followed the procession to a waiting shuttle. He noted the other four aspirants were absent, ushered to the Anointing by some other means.

The shuttle's engines roared to life, clawing through the thick haze over Erim. Below, the city unfurled like a wound, its jagged spires tearing at a sky choked with smog, red light seeping through the murk like blood welling from a cut.

As the shuttle cut off and its door hissed open, the acrid air hit him, and he heard the toll of bells.

Our Blessed Mother Cathedral rose ahead, a colossus of stone and steel thrusting toward Heaven.

Its blackened arches were studded with carved Saints and leering demons with stone gazes judging all they looked upon.

Spires stabbed through the haze, topped with iron Treys glowing through the gloom.

Chains draped the buttresses, etched with runes and prayers, the links clinking as the wind gently rocked them.

The weathered but grand bronze doors bore bas-reliefs of the blessed Mother cradling stars, her serene face ringed by a halo of skulls.

Stepping inside, the cathedral impressed even more. Obsidian columns veined with gold twisted upward into capitals crowned with cherubs welding blasters in snarling reliefs.

The nave stretched into a shadowed, vaulted ceiling. Clergy voices droned a soft chant, trailing wisps of incense. Stained glass blazed crimson and violet, depicting God's fire raining on the unworthy, and Theosis' unblinking eye glaring through the chaos.

At the nave's heart, a black iron altar crouched beneath a towering Trey, this one's holographic eye shimmering with an otherworldly malice.

Dark wooden benches lined the floor, packed with Crusaders in battered but shining armor, nobles in strange uniforms and clothing, and families clutching prayer beads.

As Angar took his place, the Hymn of the Glorious Path erupted in song like amplified thunder, shaking the stone.

As it ended, a different hymn began, and the new Episcopus emerged, ash trailing from her strange vestments, a censer swinging in her grip. "The Lord above, blessed Mother, Divine Theosis," she intoned, tracing the sign of the trey, touching forehead, right shoulder, then left.

The crowd mirrored her. A sea of gloved or gauntleted hands flashing the sign.

As all worship services did, this one initiated with all attendees singing the Hymn of Holy Vengeance, ending with its solemn vow.

Directed by Theosis, the aspirants knelt as one, then recited the Knightly Oath together, and the cathedral trembled under their unified voices.

After, the Episcopus lifted a chalice of sanctified oil rippling with heat. "By the Three's will, you are Anointed righteous Knights of the Holy Trinity, blades of the Lord's wrath," she proclaimed.

Over two hundred new Crusaders from all of Zanaya's Cloisteranages stepped forward, one by one.

Angar's turn came. With hammer in hand, he knelt before the altar, the cold iron biting through his tunic. The oil seared his brow as she daubed a burning triangle, the sensation sinking into his skull. "Sir Angar Mecia, rise a Knight-Initiate," she declared. He stood, the rite's weight settling deep in his bones even though she stated the incorrect Rank.

More rites followed, a tedious parade of oils and chants. Angar stifled a yawn, suspecting they crafted this ceremony to test endurance through boredom.

Finally, the Episcopus delivered a sermon, but that was followed by lesser clergy, culminating with the Chaplain General of the Heralds of the Iron Trinity. He led with the Litany of the Crusader.

"By God's decree, we wage Holy War. Our enemies swarm, and we stand unyielding, we grind their bones to dust, we drown their screams in torrents of blood, our lives but sparks to light Your cleansing flame."

All the Knights, new and old, proudly said the refrain. "For God and Empire, we die."

Next was a hymn Angar had never heard. As it swelled to a peak and faded, words entered into Angar's vision.

A Glorious Achievement!

Though you swore the oath a year and five months past, you have endured the Grim Ordeals, your flesh and soul forged in torment's crucible, emerged now Anointed. The Three's gaze crowns your triumph, unbroken by pain, sanctified in oil and blood, you rise to wield Holy wrath against the unholy, our many enemies.

Glory Points bestowed: 5

For God and Empire!

He'd take it.

An attack was expected, even with the Eyes, a hundred Crusaders, and Duke Maximillian's troops surrounding the cathedral, so the lack of one, at least so far, was a relief. He wouldn't be blamed for ruining a very special day for so many.

Silence fell briefly as the Anointed dispersed, drifting toward family or the recruiters setting up booths near the nave's edge.

Angar adjusted his tunic and strode forward. This choice would shape his life. He knew his path was narrow. As a melee fighter honed for close slaughter, he doubted he'd be considered by the larger chapters such as the Knights of the Black, Grim Martyrs, Hellfire Sentinels, or the Zealous Few.

Worse, his Abilities spared neither friend nor foe, striking all in range with equal fury.

Long known as the supreme method to combat Hell's forces, meta-builds, the most effective pairings of Classes and Abilities, dominated the strategies and structure of all major chapters, and had for a long time.

Some still defied the mold. The Black Vanguard charged in on battlecycles with engines roaring.

The Penitent Flame were known to accept some Knights with unorthodox builds.

The Wistful Litany, focusing on stealth attacks, had some melee fighter spots in their companies.

The Thorned Chalice, focusing on gaining footholds on Hellworlds, had issues recruiting due to how often they were slaughtered.

If he had psychic powers, the Pilgrims of Shaloth'Eshk might take him. He wished he had such powers. It was rare for Terrans, much more common for Grays.

There was a melee-focused chapter called the Furious Divine, but they were exclusively Reptiloid.

The Eyes of Providence would accept him with open arms, but Angar craved the frontlines, the vast incursions he'd faced on Vefol, not their furtive hunts and questioning.

The Arm of the Divine would probably take him too, but that'd be worse than joining the Eyes.

The Heralds of the Iron Trinity, Crusaders too crippled to continue fighting in other chapters, now fortifying worlds against corruption, was not for him either.

Besides the chapter's focus, he needed to consider the perks and pay. The former to gain more power, the latter as a way to rebuild Mecia. He had many plans for how.

If he couldn't get a chapter he wanted, he'd be forced into the Free Agencies, which he wouldn't mind so much, as it'd give him more freedom.

And a lot of Hedge Knights became wealthy, but only eventually, usually far down a long road of barely squeaking by, broke.

But there was an old saying that beggars couldn't be choosers. He felt good about the Thorned Chalice. And gaining footholds on Hellworlds, drenched in slaughter. He was sure they'd welcome his zealous wrath, and their stipends were very generous.