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

Angar trailed Harc through the cathedral's halls, the ache in his bones dulled but still very much there, despite the sisters' healing. His body still bore the scars of the duel, and treated wounds tugged at his flesh with each step, but he felt sharper, the fog of blood loss replaced by semi-clarity.

To exit the dueling circle, they had retraced their path through tunnels and then the inside of the cathedral. This time, with the stain of dishonor cleansed by the Holy Trinity's judgment in combat, Angar drew a different kind of attention.

Recruiters from various chapters swarmed him, stopping him, offering warm smiles, but Harc quickly got rid of them all, leaving them to press contact information into Angar's bandaged hands.

Chapters he'd never thought would want him, as he'd never fit in their companies, now courted him.

But only one had stood by him before the duel, and only one not only knew he had plans for his world, but said they'd back him.

"Wait," Angar called as Harc pushed through the heavy doors into the exonarthex, the cathedral's outer chamber dimly lit by flickering votives. "Are you sure you have Zhaeryn Vexn's possessions? All of it? And my own?"

Harc didn't slow, his cloak billowing as he strode forward without turning. "Yes. I'm not incompetent."

Out here, beneath the howl of Erim's smog-choked sky, the noise inside the cathedral faded into a distant hum.

Crusaders, preparing to depart, snapped to attention, fists thumping against chests, their boots ringing against the weathered stone ground as Harc passed. He gave each group a curt nod, with his pace unrelenting.

Angar matched it, the acrid night wind of Erim whipping at the torn and bloody tunic clinging to his sweat-dampened frame.

"As I've mentioned," Angar said, raising his voice over the wind's wail, "there's a good chance we'll be attacked once we leave the cordon."

Harc glanced back. "Good," he said as he walked on.

A hulking vehicle roared into view, hovering low over the curb, its dull metal hull unadorned by sigils or heraldry, just the scars of time etched into its surface, a blunt slab, like a junker.

Harc stepped inside without breaking stride, and the shadowed interior swallowed his form. His remaining eye, with Harc being the focus of the implant, had its night vision kick in automatically.

Angar ducked in after him. The growl of the engine revving vibrated through his bones as the door hissed shut behind him with a clang.

The compartment was sparse, sealed off from the driver and the rest of the vehicle, though Angar could tell there were others within, beyond the separations.

A single bench faced a blank wall. The space was devoid of windows.

And devoid of any sign of his hard-won gear or his old bag of possessions.

Harc sat, snatching a slate out, thumbing through it with the same disregard he'd shown before, as if Angar wasn't there.

The silence stretched, broken only by the rumble of the vehicle slicing through Erim's choked streets.

"Paragon Harcos," Angar said, trying to sound polite, "are you sure all my possessions are in this vehicle?"

Harc looked up, his gaze locking onto Angar's, his eyes dark as oil and filled with annoyance. "By the Three, yes, I'm sure! Where does this distrust of my competence come from? And I told you, it's Harc. Holy Theosis, I hope you're not usually this naggy. We'll chalk it up to the healing medicines you've taken."

Angar's face burned with embarrassment, his hand brushing the stitched gash above his collarbone as he shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's just that I don't see any of it, and…"

Angar's words cut off as the vehicle lurched violently, the sudden swerve slamming him against the door with a thud, jarring his wounds.

Harc didn't flinch. Hs focus was locked back on the slate. The device's faint glow cast shadows across the man's angular face as a low, grinding hum reverberated through the hull, with the deep, mechanical groan of hydraulics engaging, followed by a clank-thunk from the front and rear, as gears whirred with metallic whines.

A terrible scream tore through the air outside, a terrifying roar of something monstrous, followed by the deafening blare of turrets unleashing fury. Rapid bursts of fire shook the compartment, each salvo creating a thunderous boom that vibrated through Angar's bones.

The vehicle surged forward. The engine roared as it accelerated, and the hover system strained under the sudden burst of speed.

This had to be a Heretical attack, no doubt aimed at Angar.

Harc's earlier jab bothered him. He had never been called a nag before. Everyone griped that he didn't talk enough.

The battle raged on. Each jerk of the vehicle sent Angar crashing against the door or into Harc, who remained silent, thumbing through his slate as if this chaos wasn't happening as turrets blared, their relentless barrage punctuated by the terrible shrieks of whatever pursued them.

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Angar braced himself, and his hands gripped the bench as best he could. He'd rather fight his own battles, out there with hammer in hand, than sit here like cargo, but he wouldn't ask another question. Not after Harc called him a nag.

He had just wanted to confirm all his possessions were accounted for. A reasonable worry.

At last, the turrets fell silent. The vehicle skidded to a halt with a screech of strained metal, the sudden stop throwing Angar forward.

Doors hissed open as bodies exited. Hydraulics buzzed and clicked like a swarm of mechanical insects as unseen mechanisms shifted. Harc sat unfazed, still thumbing through the slate, his focus unbroken by any of this.

Minutes crept by, the silence filled only with hum of the vehicle's idling engine. Then the hull rocked as bodies entered. Doors clanked shut, and the trip resumed in silence.

Half an hour later, the vehicle stopped again, this time with a gentler lurch. Harc looked up, his oil-dark eyes meeting Angar's as the door hissed open. "We're at the Zephuros."

Angar stepped from the vehicle. His boots ground against the landing pad's grit as he glanced around.

They'd bypassed the spaceport entirely, driving straight to the ship. That had to be unusual. When he came to this planet with the Free Agents, there were set processes, a long wait to get from the ship to the spaceport in official transport with official guards, and a ton of bureaucratic nonsense within the giant and crammed building lasting hours.

He tilted his head back, squinting against Zanaya's smog-choked sky to take in the Zephuros. The Excalibur-type vessel looked like a junker. It had to be well over three hundred meters long, with a hull like a battered tapestry of runes and war scars half-hidden in the haze.

Its prow jutted awkwardly, flanked by twin spires that rose like forgotten watchtowers, while crimson viewports glowed along its sides. The drive hulked at its rear, and a couple bays peeked from its underbelly.

He couldn't help but compare it to Vernost's Fama Aeterna, a barracuda-type ship that most Crusader companies used. They were smaller at under two hundred meters, shaped like a lean gunmetal arrowhead built for ground support, not space duels, with no frills, just scarred plates and an efficiency of purpose.

The Zephuros, though, was different. Classified as medium-class ships like barracudas, frigates, and destroyers, it stood taller, if not prouder, with its weathered exterior showing age and neglect.

He suspected, like the vehicle that had transported them, there was more to this ship than met the eye.

More doors hissed open, and the vehicle's other occupants spilled out. Two emerged from the front, four from the rear, a few clutching Angar's possessions, relieving his worry, glad to see the Crusader Armor and prosthetic arm poking out of the bags.

Then two Mechanoids exited the vehicle, fighting machines controlled by certain Classes, usually engineer-types.

These men were well armed, bristling with armaments, five in very expensive power armor sets, but it was their implants and cybernetics on exposed parts that caught Angar's attention.

A man in clergy robes under strange, non-power armor stepped forward. His face was a mosaic of subtle mechanics, a blend of cyberware and bioware. One of the Mechanoids followed him, surprising Angar, as clergy in the Ordo Sacra Custodia weren't known for having tech Classes.

The man bowed his head slightly, hands clasped, and Angar noticed a Psy Crystal on his forearm. "God and Empire. Brother Salinja, ship chaplain," he said in a calm and measured voice.

The driver followed, a slim figure with a grin flashing too-white teeth. "God and Empire. Aansteken. Call me Stek. Gubernator," he said, the term for pilot rolling off his tongue with pride.

From the back came a giant, his face mostly metal, his power armor straining against his bulk, showing cybernetic hands and feet poking out, and his voice was a low rumble, like shifting stones. "Kong, crew technicus," he said, sizing Angar up curiously before looking away.

Another stepped forward, leaner, his gaze sharp and shifty. "God and Empire. Majed, gubernator," he said.

A tall, wiry man approached next, the other Mechanoid following him. "God and Empire. Guxim, ship technicus, but I go by Gux."

The last was shorter but in bulky, heavily-customized, engineer-type power armor covered in weapon systems, only his face showing. "God and Empire. Anarat, ship technicus," he said in nearly a growl.

"God and Empire. Angar," he replied with a nod, leaving off titles.

Harc emerged from the vehicle, tilting his head toward the ship. "Follow me. They need to get the vehicle aboard. They'll bring your possessions."

As they crossed the pad, Harc set a fast pace, asking without turning, "You've learned of Saint Thryna?"

Angar nodded. "Yes. The Defiant. Held prisoner on a Hellworld for centuries. They thought her dead until she resurfaced in a prisoner swap. She died long ago fighting Demon Lord Mara, if I'm remembering right."

Mara was the sixth most powerful Demon Lord, equivalent in strength to the Demon Lady Lilith.

None more powerful than those two had appeared since Mammon, and only the blessed Mother and Nexus had faced him. Mara had such a powerful fear effect, only Seraphs could resist it and give battle. Far too many fell, and his defeat cost the Holy Empire dearly.

Harc gave a slight nod, keeping his pace steady. "That battle also claimed my master. Like him, she didn't die."

He slowed, half-turning, his dark eyes locking on Angar. "You're aware that injuries from Demon Lords or certain powerful entities of Hell can't be healed or regenerated?"

Angar knew some brain and spinal injuries were permanent if survived, but this was new. "No," he replied.

"Mara tore off her arms, bit her in half, and discarded her," Harc said, resuming his stride. "She can't recover from the damage. Without her lower core, her Abilities are gone. She's augmented as far as doctrine allows, fully loaded with weapon systems, just shy of Theosis classifying her as Heretic, but she's…she was once a Holy terror, but she's less now.

"Don't call her Saint. Avoid her name. Address her as Madame. Show her great respect, but don't be too obvious about it. And don't stare too long. Shadow of her former self or not, she can stomp you into the ground."

"Understood," Angar replied, having no desire to disrespect a legend like Saint Thryna the Defiant.

"And don't ever tell anyone you saw her," Harc ordered sharply. "She prefers everyone thinking she's dead."

"Understood," Angar said again.

They ascended a canted ramp into a cavernous bay. The interior unfolded like a cathedral's undercroft with dented steel walls soaring upward, and the deck pitted with blaster scars.

Chains clicking faintly dangled from the ceiling, while crimson light strips cast a bloody glow over neatly stacked crates of rations and ammo.

All around, machines gleamed, well-kept despite the wear.

The grime was minimal, and spiraling runes etched into the walls showed a craftsmanship too refined for how the junker appeared from outside. Whatever decay cloaked The Zephuros, Hidetada's wealth and pride was forged into every rivet within.

In the bay stood Simo and Veerta, radiating unease. Simo's eyes flicked to Angar's, only for a brief second before dropping to the floor as his lone hand twitched at his side.

"What's wrong?" Angar asked, insistence.

"Nothing, Sir," Simo replied with his gaze fixed downward and posture rigid with tension.

But something was clearly wrong. Veerta looked just as nervous, like she prayed he didn't question her.

Angar's jaw tightened as a cold resolve settled in his chest. If Simo and Veerta had been abused, he'd extract more than a pound of flesh in vengeance.

The duel was behind him, but that may have just been a warmup for the day's true battle, and he felt a new one brewing in his bones.