The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

A breath passed through the shrine. The air thickened. No divine wind. No holy light. Just a pressure in the lungs, like standing in the middle of a decision someone else already made.

The altar lit.

A new doctrine seal etched itself into the cracked stone.

Sōma squinted at it. The glyphs were archaic—older than WP standardization—but the meaning was clear enough:

"Sanctuary shall be granted through the removal of burden. All who surrender identity may remain in peace."

Kirin's mouth didn't move, but her badge vibrated in agreement.

The shrine was now legally sanctified. But not as it once was.

Now it was an erasure zone. A place where memory itself could be left at the door like dirty shoes.

They walked the outer hall in silence.

Every door was now warded with calming glyphs. The prayer mats had reoriented themselves. Even the tea water in the offering basin no longer reflected.

It was a shrine for the unseen.

And it didn't want witnesses.

Sōma's WP badge crackled.

"LOG UPDATE: MIRACLE APPROVED. SHRINE STATUS: REAUTHORIZED. DOCTRINE SHIFT: NOTED."

Then: "WARNING: PROLONGED EXPOSURE MAY IMPACT IDENTITY RETENTION."

"Oh good," Sōma muttered. "I can finally forget middle school."

Kirin touched the wall with one gloved hand.

"This place now has symmetry," she said softly.

He turned to her.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"It would," she said, "if symmetry didn't sometimes mean pain."

"And the people who come here? Who forget?"

"They're not gone. They're just... no longer archived."

Sōma's fingers tensed on his satchel.

He almost asked if she believed that.

Almost.

But instead, he reached into his coat.

And pulled out the calling card.

It hadn't been there before.

He didn't remember receiving it.

But it sat perfectly aligned between his audit forms.

Thin black paper. Gold ink.

One line:

"The Doctrine Is Not What You Audit. It's What You Inherit."

On the back, a seal. Like a bureaucrat's crest—but bent, corrupted.

Half-torched.

Archivist class.

He closed his fist around it.

At the shrine's threshold, they stopped.

One step more, and they'd leave.

One step less, and they'd forget why they came.

"I want to say something clever," Sōma said.

"You don't have to," Kirin replied. "You already signed it."

And they walked into the twilight together.

The shrine locked itself behind them.

No click. No seal. Just absence.

[Somewhere inside the regional audit server stack – Tamori's office, 2:43 a.m.]

The desk was cluttered. Three cups of long-dead tea. Seven forms marked "URGENT" with handwriting that screamed "ignore this."

Tamori stared at the report.

Or rather—the lack of it.

Sōma's field submission had been received.

Then un-received.

Then overwritten with a doctrinal stability notice that no department in his jurisdiction had filed.

He tapped the screen.

Nothing changed.

He tapped it again, just to feel alive.

Then sighed, cracked his fingers, and opened a redacted override console.

USER REQUEST: RETRIEVE FIELD REPORT – CODE: HSM-88c

AUTHORITY LEVEL: Tamori, Handler Class, Central Bureau – Conditional

OVERRIDE: Divine Interference Suspected

STATUS: Report Not Found. Memory Reconciliation Error. Did you mean: "No such shrine ever existed"?

Tamori muttered a curse.

Filed it in triplicate.

And hit send on a memo Sōma wasn't cleared to receive.

Which meant he would.

[A long walk from a shrine that now forgets — near the edge of the contested doctrine zone]

The night was a bruise.

Not dark, exactly—just swollen with implications.

Kirin walked ahead, her silhouette razor-clean against the dust. Sōma trailed, badge flickering with residual doctrine fog.

Neither spoke.

Until his satchel moved.

It chirped. Like a document trying to breathe.

Sōma stopped.

Reached in.

Pulled out a scroll. Not the standard kind. This one ticked.

"REDACTED MEMO: MIRACLE AUDIT CHAIN BREAK DETECTED."

"Tamori," he muttered. "You sent a timed scroll."

He cracked the seal.

Smoke curled into legible thoughts.

"Someone erased your report. The shrine's miracle is now listed under a non-existent god. Which is a neat trick for an altar without a sponsor. Stay ahead of it, Sōma. If you see a man in librarian robes smiling at you, run. Or don't. Depends on how poetic you're feeling. — T."

He looked up at Kirin.

She had already stopped walking.

Her badge was glowing.

"Someone just entered the shrine," she said.

"But it's sealed," Sōma replied.

"Not to those who've already forgotten the price."

[Inside the shrine — now a place where memory dies politely]

The figure moved like a conviction.

Simple robes. Sandals. A satchel full of prayer beads that pulsed out of sync.

He approached the altar, hands steady, eyes unfocused.

"Retrieve the girl," he muttered to no one.

He placed a relic on the floor.

It pulsed once—then vanished.

The shrine didn't scream.

It offered tea.

He blinked. Forgot something.

Stepped forward.

"Retrieve who?"

He turned.

The door was gone.

His satchel was missing a bead.

He knelt where the miracle once happened, hands trembling. His badge dissolved. So did his purpose.

Outside, the shrine locked again.

This time, to history.

[Back with Sōma and Kirin – an hour later, post-memo, mid-awkward silence]

"So," Sōma said, rereading the last line of Tamori's scroll, "we're being watched."

"I assumed that already," Kirin replied. "Nothing this well-balanced happens without choreography."

"I don't like being choreographed."

"Then learn the next steps first."

His badge buzzed.

A voice chirped.

"NEW FIELD PARTNER ASSIGNED. AUDITOR COMPANION: THIRD-CLASS JUNIOR MIRACLE COORDINATOR – LANEKO."

He blinked.

"Who?"

A young woman popped out from behind a doctrine stone, grinning like a pamphlet with legs.

"Hi! I'm your new miracle liaison!"

Sōma blinked again.

Kirin blinked once.

Then—simultaneously:

"No," Sōma said.

"Denied," Kirin said.

LaneKo froze mid-wave. "But I brought snacks."

"Return them," Kirin said.

"File an appeal," Sōma added.

A beat passed.

LaneKo nodded once.

"I was here for morale. Guess I'll file a supplemental cheer directive."

She vanished in a blur of confetti and administrative shame.

Kirin didn't even smirk.

[Later, on a ridge above the shrine]

A man watched the shrine from afar.

He wore robes faded into dusk. One hand held a closed ledger. The other a flame that refused to cast heat.

Around his neck: a seal. Not worn. Embedded.

An Archivist.

He tilted his head.

"The scroll loop is broken," he said to no one. "And someone accepted the cost. Interesting." "I wonder if they realize they've only paid the first tax."

He snapped the ledger shut.

Walked away.

A prayer moth flew from his sleeve and vanished into doctrine static.