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

Ahead of Angar, Paragon Harcos moved with a purpose, carving a relentless path through the throng.

The man's presence commanded undeniable authority. As he passed, every attendant dipped their heads, fists thumping hearts in salute, calling out, "God and Empire!"

Angar felt the burn of his own unpopularity in the wake of this figure. He followed closely, half-hoping some of Harcos's grace might spill over onto him.

He trailed the man through one of the apsidal chapels, the heavy gaze of the cathedral's crowd still prickling at his back like claws.

As they neared a door at the chapel's edge, Angar called out, "Wait. I need to grab my possessions."

Harcos didn't slow or glance back, and his voice cut through the clatter with casual authority. "No need. We have them already."

Angar shrugged and followed. The door hissed shut behind them as they stepped into a small antechamber with benches lining the walls and two hallways branching east and west.

Harcos settled onto a bench, grabbed a slate from his coat, and thumbed through it with an air of indifference, as though Angar wasn't even there.

Angar settled onto a bench, the ancient wood creaking beneath his weight. For a long moment, a taut silence stretched between the two.

Finally, Angar broke it. "Paragon Harcos, I need to deliver my prosthetic arm to my old servant, Simo."

Harcos didn't look up from the slate. "Well, I doubt you'll live long enough to make the delivery, but if you do, you can give it to him yourself on the ship. He's already aboard. And 'Paragon Harcos' is too many syllables and grates on my nerves. Harc works fine."

Angar's brow furrowed. "What ship?"

"The Zephuros," Harc replied, his focus still locked on the slate, offering no further explanation.

Angar waited, expecting more, but Harc remained silent, attention fully on whatever he was perusing. The bench creaked again as Angar shifted. "Can you tell me why Simo is on your ship?"

Harc set the slate aside, finally meeting Angar's gaze with eyes dark as oil. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I suppose I can, though it doesn't matter now. I tried giving you a chance. But as things stand, you'll be dead in less than an hour."

Angar opened his mouth to respond, but Harc pressed on. "No one with any sense would bet on you surviving against Zhaeryn Vexn. He's a famed and professional duelist, more bounty hunter than Crusader, and a Psychic to boot. His gear is top-tier, and I believe his new armor is resistant, if not outright immune, to your lightning attacks.

"As things now stand, even my master, who once had great faith in you, is certain you'll fall. If you'd accepted the terms I laid out, we'd have had a week. You'd join my master's chapter. We'd have had plenty of time to outfit you with decent armor and a proper weapon, to train you in how Vexn fights. "Then my master would've put his money on the man who took down a Harmongulan and the Phasorax, and did so while in the first Tier."

Harc shook his head. "I still wouldn't bet on you myself, mind you, but my master saw something in you I do not."

Angar grunted, unfazed by the lack of faith. Doubt from others meant nothing. Few outside of Mecia and Tormina would understand why he fought. Or could, as their faith was twisted and lacked proper focus.

Live or die, the fight against Vexn would be glorious, and that was enough. The Lord's hunger for blood and battle would be satisfied.

Harc reached for his slate again, but Angar held up a hand. "One moment. I heard the crowd mention your master was Saint Hidetada, but I don't know him. He has a Knightly Chapter, you said, so is the grand marshal? Which one?"

Angar knew of the grand marshals of every chapter, each one of them legendary. Many had fought in Holy War for a thousand years.

Harc barked out a dry laugh. "Most in the Holy Empire know of my master and me, but you've only been in it a short time, so it's understandable you don't. Saint Hidetada was once the Duke Imperator of the Sol Dominion. His reign was long, though I ruled in his stead, as is custom for Crusaders also of the Filii Nobiles".

Angar nodded, and Harc continued. "Like Maximillian, he was gravely wounded battling the infernal abyss. Felled by a Demon Lord, now sustained by machines, immortal and broken. Long after he became a cripple, he founded a Knightly Chapter named the Smallest Spark. It's official, though few consider it so.

"He wanted you to be its seventh Knight member. Seventh ever, not current, as they don't tend to live long. You'll have the dubious honor of being the first offered membership to die before even joining."

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Angar's hand drifted to the pouch at his side, where the Phasorax Core rested alongside his credits. He didn't like that Harc had taken his other possessions without asking. "No matter how this duel goes," he said, "will you promise to get my bag of possession with my prosthetic arm to Simo?"

Harc nodded once. "I shall."

"Thank you. And if I fall, will you ensure he receives my hammer and everything else on my body?"

"I shall."

Angar inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you. If Saint Hidetada is immortal, that means he's a Seraph. Why does he want me in his chapter? Or why did he?"

A wry smile cracked Harc's stern features, fleeting but telling. "As I said, my master had faith in you, though I couldn't say why. He was certain you'd accept, especially since we're the only chapter that would back your plans for Sulfuron 9. No sense even making the offer now. We wouldn't even have time to complete the paperwork before you die."

Surprise tightened Angar's jaw, and his mind raced. "How did he know I had plans for my planet? I haven't spoken of them to anyone."

Harc's gaze was inscrutable. "He knows much."

Angar tried puzzling it out. How could this Saint Hidetada know intentions he'd kept to himself? He came up empty.

For a fleeting moment, he almost regretted rushing into the duel with Vexn. Almost, but not quite. "You must know those loyal to Hell want me dead," he said. "If your chapter's so small, why would you want the hassle of constant attacks?"

Harc let out another dry laugh. "There hasn't been a strike since the Phasorax fell. All the plots uncovered since were set in motion before then. They spent their wad on the Abyssal Tyrant.

"I suspect, now that the Grim Ordeals are behind you, the smaller assaults have dried up. You'd only have had to worry about the occasional major attack. Did the Eyes ever tell you they suspect Nox Morgathra's behind it all, pulling strings?"

Angar shook his head. "No. I've never heard of Nox Morgathra. Are they a Herald or an Emissary? I've killed plenty of both."

"She's far more than that," replied Harc in a lower voice. "It's believed she works for Teth Malevon, though neither has ever been seen, only whispered about, and even then, only when a Heretic breaks under severe interrogation.

"And none of that matters now. You're about to die, so we really should focus on your impending abrupt end to life. I'll tell you what I know of Vexn and how he fights."

The cathedral's dueling circle opened ahead as Angar followed Harc through a shadowed archway. Inside, the air grew cooler and sharper, infused with the scent of oil and steel.

The circular chamber opened beneath a soaring dome, with walls of blackened stone etched with runes and prayers.

Chains clinked softly from the buttresses, while colored light bled through stained glass high above, painting the floor in hues of blood and fire. At the dome's apex, a Trey's cold, unblinking eye stared down at Angar.

The crowd had filled stands encircling the rim of the dueling pit, perched beyond the reach of unleashed powers. As Angar stepped into view, the crowd's murmurs rose.

Harc halted at the circle's edge. As he turned to face him, his oily eyes looked at Angar like he was already dead. "I'll see your servant gets what's promised." He stepped aside, gesturing toward a mark closer to the circle's center. "Your doom awaits."

The crowd looked on with a mix of disdain, anticipation, and morbid curiosity as Angar walked forward to take his spot.

The stone floor was smooth and cold beneath his boots, worn by countless duels, pocked with countless scars.

Across the circle, two figures emerged from the shadows, and the air seemed to tighten with their presence.

Sir Zhaeryn Vexn's towering frame was like a silvery specter against the dark stone, with his helm now in place. It was a sleek, angular thing of silvery metal that looked as thin as the rest of his armor, with a narrow-slit glowing with a pale crimson light for a visor.

Vexn's elongated fingers flexed, curling and uncurling like tendrils, and his knees bent in that unnaturally smooth and eerie way.

The glowing visor fixed on Angar with an intensity that sent a chill racing down his spine. Not with fear, but with the thrill of facing a worthy foe.

Angar squared his shoulders. The Vitalulum harness sat warm against his skin. Unlike his opponent, his chest was bare of armor, wearing only a tunic offering no protection.

He had removed his gloves, though he knew his claws had no chance of piercing Crusader Armor, even the strange set Vexn wore.

He was about thirty meters from his opponent, the interior about sixty meters across in total.

He had only the large hammer in his grip against the arsenal Vexn carried, but he'd never relied on gear to win before.

He took a step forward, planting his boots firmly on the marked stone, and readied himself for glory.

From the sidelines, Duke Maximillian's hoverchair whirred into the circle's center. His hate-filled eyes locked on Angar as Harc stood beside him with arms crossed, cold indifference masking his face.

A sister emerged from a side door wearing a habit stranger than most he'd seen, and raised a hand adorned with many rings.

The crowd's murmurs hushed, and a collective breath held.

"By God's will," the sister intoned, her voice echoing off the dome, "this duel is sanctioned beneath the Trey's gaze. Sir Angar Mecia, Knight-Adept, faces Sir Zhaeryn Vexn, Knight-Master, champion of Sir Maximillian Donnerdun, Duke of Zanaya. To the death, for honor and wrath. Begin when dusk's light exits the circle."

Angar bowed his head and performed the sign of the trey. Lord, I offer up this battle in tribute, our blood and last breath as a gift, prayed Angar.

He hadn't fought since ascending to the second Tier. No one knew how strong he was now, nor did they know about Lightning Strike. People could bet against him all they wanted, but they bet in ignorance.

Harc, Maximillian, and the sister made their way out of the ring.

Angar and his opponent waited, but not for all that long. The stained glass flared as daylight's last rays cut through the haze outside, casting the last jagged beam of pink across the stone. It crept closer, centimeter by centimeter, grazing the circle's edge before vanishing. The crowd's hush deepened, broken only by chains rattling above.

Vexn shifted, adjusting his stance, one hand drifting toward the blaster on his back.

Angar's grip tightened on the power maul's haft, feeling anticipation course through him, eager to be unleashed.

His heart pounded, not with doubt, but with righteous fire, and that fire, under the Trey's gaze, would either consume Vexn, or burn Angar to ash.