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

Angar stood in the cathedral's apse, near where the choir would chant the Divine Offices during Mass. The air was filled with incense and chatter, and he felt like prey ringed by hidden wolves.

All the recruiters had booths lining the ambulatory. He'd approached two, one from the Black Vanguard, another from the Penitent Flame, but one dismissed him with a sneer, the other with clipped words and a cold stare.

He was saving the Thorned Chalice for last, banking on their need for recruits, but now doubt ate at him.

Something was wrong. Something deeper than the snubs he'd received from some students.

Newly Anointed Knights whispered behind hands, sending glances darting his way, but it wasn't just them.

Grown men and women, Crusaders in well-worn armor, nobles in strange clothes, even Lay recruiters, cast him looks that ranged from disdain to outright venom.

Their voices hushed as he passed, only to rise again in his wake. There was an undercurrent of scorn he couldn't pin down.

It couldn't be due to the Heretical attacks. All sane and reasonable folk knew that was beyond his control. They had to. He assumed they did, at least.

His gloves hid his leonine hands, so it wasn't his false Hellsign either.

But there was some conspiracy, and the weight of their stares pressed against him.

Scanning, he spotted a crippled man in a hoverchair gliding through the crowd, only the face exposed, the body covered in heavily repaired Crusader Armor. It bore the sigil of the Hellfire Sentinels on its upper right breast, not the Heralds of the Iron Trinity, as Angar first guessed it would.

The man's sharp eyes tracked him with clear hatred.

And with this man was what had to be a Pleiadean, a tall figure of quiet strangeness, the first he'd ever seen of the species.

Well, besides Spirit, as she was half-Pleiadean, but this thing seemed like a cartoonish exaggeration of her.

Like the psychic power of the Grays, and the shapeshifting of the Reptiloids, the Pleiadeans were known for their Bio-Sinusoid, a communication method using sinusoidal waves to transmit information and wisdom between organisms, or even promote physiological effects such as healing.

The Pleiadean had to be over three meters tall. Its frame was elongated and gaunt, like it was stretched beyond Terran limits by some torture device.

Its skin gleamed a chalky white, similar to Vefol's natives, but unmarred by burn or blemish, and its fine, silvery hair trailed down its back, swaying with each step like a shroud of spider silk.

Its large, almond-shaped, frigid blue eyes burned with a strange sort of inner light, skimming over the world with a cold, unreadable intensity.

Its features were sharp and delicate, almost Terran, but also not, and in a way that made Angar's skin crawl.

Its cheekbones were like blades, with an overly small and still mouth, a nose so narrow it barely seemed like it could be used to breathe, and ears that were far longer and pointier than Spirit's own.

But it was the body that marked it as truly alien. Its limbs were unnaturally long, even compared to how he saw imperial citizens. Its fingers bent with a flexibility that hinted at extra joints, curling and uncurling like tendrils, even hidden under its gauntlets.

Its knees and elbows flexed in ways no Terran's could, bending too far and too smoothly, as it moved with an eerily fluid and exaggerated grace. Each silent and deliberate step flowed into the next, like it glided just above the stone rather than walked upon it.

The armor it wore seemed much thinner than usual Crusader Armor, even the light version most lancers wore, and seemed more crafted for agility rather than defense.

The armor clung to its wiry frame with a pale and reflective silver surface that mirrored the dim candle and torchlight in the cathedral. Segmented plates hugged its chest and limbs, leaving its joints free to twist and stretch in their eerie way.

At the center of the breastplate shone a Trey etched in stark black only, and no chapter sigil was embossed on the upper right.

The four pistols at its belt were massive and angular things with long barrels, dangling low on the hips. A smaller type of sword hung beside them, with a smooth, silvery material covering the hilt matching its armor, sheathed in a crystalline scabbard.

On its back, a blaster was set beside the hilt of another weapon. What that weapon was, Angar couldn't tell. Something angular and unidentifiable.

As Angar scanned the cathedral, he saw its alien head tilt slightly. Those strangely glowing blue eyes locked onto his own for a moment, before dismissing him entirely.

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He shook off the chill it sent down his spine and worked through the crowd toward the Eyes of Providence booth.

Madame Chesty stood there in gleaming and rune-etched armor, chatting with a cluster of fresh Knights. Angar lingered nearby, waiting for her to finish.

As he stepped forward, Commander Wallace approached her too. Seeing Angar, his broad frame stiffened. Both Knights stiffened, avoiding his gaze as if he carried a plague.

"God and Empire," Angar said. "Excuse me, Commander, do you know why there seems to be a…this tone? Why everyone seems angry with me?"

Wallace's jaw tightened, and his gaze filled with disdain. "You called a hero of the Holy Empire, a man who gave his body fighting a rare and feared Gatekeeper to save his company, whose name the Enlightened Scribes etched into the Litany of Heroes, a coward and oath-breaker. You impugned his honor, his deeds, his very soul."

All the pieces snapped into place. He cursed silently. "Please don't tell me that's Duke Maximillian in the hoverchair."

"It is," Wallace said.

No one ever told him Maximillian was crippled in Holy War, retired not by choice, but by a shattered body.

Simo, Kenson, and the low-ranking Eyes he regularly spoke with wouldn't have known, as Dukes and Duchesses were distant and lofty figures, far above and removed from the people, known only by name.

Angar still loathed Leopold, and Maximillian, but honor ate at him. A man broken by Holy War deserved respect. Honor demanded he address and own up to his mistake.

Pushing through the crowd, he approached the hoverchair. Maximillian's head lolled against the backrest with a limp neck, his arms and legs motionless. Only his eyes moved, tracking Angar with unerring focus.

The cathedral's din faded as attendants turned to watch.

"Sir Duke Maximillian?" Angar asked in a calm and steady voice, despite the weight of eyes.

"Yes," came a mechanical rasp from the chair, as Maximillian's lips sat unmoving.

"God and Empire. I'm Sir Angar. I humbly apologize for my message yesterday." He bowed at the waist, a gesture of contrition. "I didn't know you were crippled in glorious Holy War. I assumed, incorrectly, you'd retired hale and whole."

A long pause stretched out like the cathedral held its breath. Maximillian's eyes burned into Angar, unblinking. The Pleiadean's frigid gaze drilled into Angar from the side too. It seemed like every ear strained for the Duke's reply.

"You, while a Knight-Novice, assaulted my un-ascended son twice, just a regular child," the mechanical voice rasped out. "You shattered his face in class, then crushed it again that night. He needed time in a Vitaelux Apexium after the second, costing me millions.

"You scorned my offers to meet and make peace, spat on my good name, called me coward and oath-breaker. Me, a former captain of the famed Rampage Company of the Hellfire Sentinels. I held off a Dreadfiend. Its claws sundered my spine as my company escaped. Even still, after all that, I spent millions beefing up the security of this whole planet to protect you. And all you offer is a humble apology?"

His mechanical voice sharpened, spitting each word like blaster fire. "No, Sir Angar, we're beyond apologies. Your words were a gauntlet flung. By ancient codes, a challenge to my blood and honor. I accept the challenge, as honor demands."

The Pleiadean glided forward like a silver wraith, its many weapons promising death.

"I name Sir Zhaeryn Vexn my champion," Maximillian said. "His Rank is Knight-Master, a Rank below my own, though I'd be within my rights to name a champion my own Rank. He carries my wrath, and my right. Face him in the dueling circle, as honor demands, or flee as the coward you branded me. Choose, Knight, before this cathedral sees your shame."

Angar straightened as the crowd's eyes pinned him, some eager, some disgusted, all waiting.

Zhaeryn Vexn stood motionless, like a coiled spring, those strange and frigid blue eyes filled with a hunger for slaughter.

Angar's heart flowed with bloodlust, a righteous fire he'd held leashed too long, through all the Grim Ordeals. A mighty enemy stood before him, a perfect test for his new Ability, Lightning Strike.

He stood taller. To Maximillian, he said, "I accept, Sir Duke. But if I stand victorious, I expect your acceptance of my apology. This rift's born of miscommunication, and the duel ends it, one way or another."

A few gasps rippled through the attendants, accompanied by sharp intakes of breath, echoing off the cathedral's stone. Angar assumed this was due to him accepting a lopsided duel he was within his rights to reject, and with honor intact.

Angar thought about antagonizing the man by calling his son a weakling and a coward, but Leopold wasn't part of this. The son would face Angar one day.

The Duke had two other children. Crusaders retiring into the Laity could marry, and Crusaders in the nobility already had a Lay rank. As Theosis merged seed and egg in Genitoriums, so could it inside a wife, requiring only the couple to fill out paperwork, with the same tithing requirements.

The Duke's hoverchair emitted a harsh and grating mechanical laugh before rasping out, "I accept. You'll face Sir Zhaeryn tonight, in Our Blessed Mother Cathedral's dueling circle, to the death, beneath the Trey, with God as judge. Dusk's light will see your blood."

A man stepped from the crowd, drawing more and sharper gasps. He was very tall for a Layman, though not Crusader-tall. His attire was fine silk and leather stitched with precision, lacking the ostentatiousness of the usual noble garb.

The man's face was a hard plane of angles set in deep bronze skin. Sharp cheekbones framed eyes dark as oil, glinting with a calculating intensity beneath heavy brows. A thin and stern mouth sat above a squared chin, shadowed by a neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray.

As far as Angar could see, the man was only lightly armed, carrying a single and plain pistol on his right hip.

Whispers buzzed through the attendants, hushed tones informing those ignorant of this man's identity. Angar caught fragments, piecing it together as Paragon Harcos, right hand to a Saint Hidetada.

The man's words cut through the murmurs like a scythe, ending them. "Hold, Sir Duke Maximillian," he announced more than said. "This newly Anointed Knight has no chapter, no armor, only a cheap power hammer. He's newly ascended to Knight-Adept.

"Sir Zhaeryn Vexn is a Knight-Master, over two Ranks and a full Tier above him, a famed and feared duelist, and a powerful Psychic. The challenged sets the terms. Sir Angar accepted your champion already, but he names the date, hour, and arms."

The man turned to Angar. His dark eyes bore into him, assessing, then turned back to the Duke. "I'll stand as his advocate. As is custom, the duel waits a week from the challenge, to be held at noon. I'll deliver the rest of his terms within five days. Come, Sir Angar, follow."

The man turned and started walking.

"No," stated Angar. "I accept the Duke's terms. We'll fight as we are, at dusk this day, beneath the Trey."

He was itching to test his new strength and Lightning Strike.

Also, he had never seen, never mind fought, a Pleiadean or a powerful Psychic, and this one had a haughty air about it Angar disliked. He'd cave its skull in and offer whatever alien goop spilled out as tribute to the Lord.

Or he'd die. He'd find out which soon enough.