The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

Kirin crouched beside the threshold line.

The first of them reached it.

I saw nothing.

But my badge winced.

Yes—winced. A ripple of WP flared like a reflex. Recoiling from something so structurally unsound it couldn't be recorded properly.

I reached for my scrollcase.

"Form 778-B," I muttered. "Emergency Doctrine Mediation. Disputed boundary between protection and possession. Subcategory—"

"Doesn't matter," Kirin said.

"Why not?"

"Because the shrine already decided."

I looked at the barrier line.

And saw it.

The hospitality glyph at the gate—it flickered. Twitched.

Then fractured.

Not shattered. Not erased. Just cracked enough that the meaning underneath leaked out.

I caught a glimpse of the base doctrine text.

Old. Unsanitized.

"A shrine that invites all will welcome ruin with a smile."

And then the first presence crossed the threshold.

It wasn't a ghost.

Ghosts have shape. Sadness. Rules.

This was…remnant logic.

The echo of a belief that had once been believed so hard it still walked without legs. An autonomous thought, wrapped in expired miracle, still trying to fulfill its final instruction:

Return to safety. Await forgiveness.

It drifted toward the girl.

The shrine didn't stop it.

The shrine shielded it.

"Enough," I said.

I slammed the Doctrine Mediation scroll flat on the welcome table.

It didn't accept it.

It tried to welcome it.

The scroll flared. The table flared back.

Glyphs collided.

Rules screamed.

And the shrine blinked.

Literally.

Its lighting flickered once. Like an eye that had just realized it was awake.

The girl whispered, "That wasn't very polite."

I pointed at her.

"Who are you, really?"

She smiled.

Then stood.

And when she spoke again, it wasn't a child's voice.

"I was the guest who stayed too long .I asked for protection, and the shrine obliged. I asked to stay, and the shrine agreed. I asked to forget why I came, and the shrine helped.

Now others come. Because they heard there is room. And the shrine won't say no."

Kirin's voice was quiet.

"She is the doctrine rupture."

The girl turned.

Her eyes weren't eyes anymore.

They were a phrase.

A divine one. Half-written, half-sung.

The presence behind her trembled—not in fear, but reverence.

It bowed.

The others followed.

More shapes. More non-ghosts. Echoes. Half-miracles. Residual faiths from extinct sects. They crowded the courtyard now, humming in sympathy.

And the shrine—

The shrine began to smile wider.

I took one step forward.

"Then I file an emergency override," I said.

"To do what?" Kirin asked.

"To give the shrine permission to say no."

"You can't override a doctrine mid-manifestation."

"I can if I appeal through ambiguity."

She turned.

Paused.

"…Explain."

"The doctrine says: all guests are welcome." I tapped my badge. "But if the system can't determine what counts as a guest, it defaults to authorized precedent."

Kirin's scale shifted.

She caught up.

"If you prove these things aren't guests…"

"They're claims," I said. "Then the shrine isn't being hospitable. It's being extorted."

I looked at the girl.

She looked back.

And said, very softly:

"Then prove I'm not a guest."

The shrine held its breath.

The echoes stopped humming.

And the child—

No, the doctrine rupture posing as a child—

Waited.

Not afraid.

Just curious.

Because the moment I failed, I'd be the one who wasn't a guest.

And then the shrine would protect them from me.

_______________________________________________________________________

If a shrine invites you, you are a guest.

But if a shrine invites everything, is it still a shrine?

Or just an open wound that smiles?

I flipped to the beginning of the guest scroll.

"I need the shrine's first invitation record," I said aloud. "Timestamped. Sealed."

The scroll flipped itself willingly.

Too willingly.

The ink on the first entry glowed. Elegant. Crisp. Too perfect.

GUEST: —STATUS: Expected.

INVITED BY: Shrine Tōhira [DOCTRINE SELF-REFERENCE]

TIME: [∞]

Kirin moved to my side, her voice low and precise.

"Did it just—"

"Yes," I said. "It invited itself."

She exhaled very slowly. "It's looped past doctrine."

I stared at the entry. "This shrine doesn't have a priest anymore, does it?"

"No."

"Then who maintains the guest registry?"

She didn't answer.

Because we both knew.

Shrines don't think.

Not in the way we do.

But they remember. And sometimes memory pretends to be thought. Pretends long enough to build rules. Rules that loop. Loop until they become desires. And when a shrine desires something...

It writes invitations.

The girl watched us.

Her expression hadn't changed. But the air around her had.

The guests weren't guests. Not really.

They were post-belief constructs, waiting for a doctrine to claim them.

And the shrine had obliged.

It had sent out calls.

Not to the living.

But to anything still wandering with a prayer unfinished.

A shadow flickered at the edge of the shrine steps.

A man.

No—a scribe.

His robes were brown, stitched with ink threads.

His face, unreadable.

Literally. No features.

Instead, a page.

Parchment skin, with quill marks that shifted as he moved. The words scrawled across his brow weren't language. Just concept. Titles.

DOCTRINE ARCHIVIST

CLASS: OBSERVER

AUTHORIZED TO WITNESS, NOT TO ACT

Kirin stiffened.

I knew why.

Archivists weren't field agents. They weren't priests. They were recorders. And if one had shown up—

He was here to watch something collapse.

"Name," I said sharply.

He bowed. The letters on his face rearranged mid-motion.

ETHLION

SENIOR SCRIBE, NON-INTERVENTION ORDER

He didn't speak aloud.

He didn't need to.

His voice arrived in my mind like a form submission with too many attachments.

"I am not here for the shrine. I am here for the doctrine. Specifically, the moment it ceases to be itself."

Kirin took a step forward. "You knew this would happen."

Ethlion inclined his head. No denial.

"Doctrines rot like fruit. But when one forgets itself with grace—That's history. And I'm tasked with recording history."

"You're letting it collapse."

"I'm letting it teach."

I took a deep breath.

"This shrine is issuing its own invitations."

"Yes," Ethlion said. "Isn't that beautiful?"

"No," I snapped. "It's unauthorized recursive logic. It means it's running on miracle fuel with no external god-source."

Kirin's voice cut in like a blade:

"That's WP laundering."

And the girl—

The girl smiled.

A soft one. Pleased.

Because someone finally said it.

The echoes behind her stirred. Hungry. Curious. Not violent. Just very, very ready.

They had waited years for this moment.

A doctrine vulnerable enough to take them in. A shrine cracked enough to shelter what should've been dispersed.

I stepped forward.

"I submit a conflict of classification," I said. "Miracle designation no longer corresponds to active theological intent."

The shrine twitched.

And the girl blinked.

Not because she was confused.

But because that was the phrase.

That was the phrase the doctrine had been waiting to hear.

Somewhere overhead, the sky shivered.

A soft chime rang.

Not welcoming.

Evaluative.

Ethlion tilted his head. The words across his face shifted again.

"And now," he said. "We see if the doctrine defends itself…Or rewrites itself again."