The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

There's a unique frequency of silence reserved for divine filing errors. Not just any silence. This one hums with implied lawsuits, pre-litigation energies, and the faint scent of ozone-scorched paperwork.

I was kneeling in front of a rusted WP terminal embedded in what used to be the shrine's records alcove—half-collapsed and wholly illegal. The screen blinked softly, like a guilty cleric pretending not to be home.

My badge—Provisional Auditor Class, Department of Conditional Compliance, glorified intern—was glowing the exact shade of nervous. A bureaucratic aura. Possibly contagious.

Kirin stood behind me with the posture of someone preparing to write an obituary titled "Death by Interface."

"It shouldn't be doing that," I muttered.

"It shouldn't exist," she replied flatly. "That model was deprecated after the Doctrine Compression Riots. The glyphs still reference the pre-unity index."

"Oh good. A haunted typewriter."

Sōma tapped the glyph again. It bounced harder this time.

Then the screen pulsed.

Once. Twice.

Then it sighed.

Not metaphorically. The terminal physically sighed—like a bureaucrat exhaling through a broken flute.

A strange scent filled the air: sanctified toner and divine apathy.

"That's not a normal error," Kirin said.

The screen blinked, displaying new text:

AUTO-ESCALATION TRIGGERED: CONTEXTUAL INCOMPETENCE DETECTED.

Engaging backup divine compliance support...

A glowing sigil unfurled in the air above the altar. Loose papers rustled in formation. A divine hotline was being dialed through ritual sarcasm.

And then he appeared.

Not summoned. Not invoked. Just… generated.

A stack of sentient bureaucracy in vaguely humanoid shape, trailing floating folders and form-eating sigils.

"Ah," the entity said. "Someone misplaced a miracle. Again."

Apostix.

Minor god of Misfiled Paperwork.

Patron of recursive helpdesks, redundant audits, and aggressive CC'ing.

Sōma stood slowly. "I didn't call you."

"Of course not. You're not authorized," Apostix said brightly. "But the system hates unbalanced documentation. I was auto-routed."

"Please specify report classification, origin shrine, miracle tier, WP yield, metaphysical compliance rating, and badge authenticity."

"What if I don't have those?"

He led us through the rift.

And by "rift," I mean a literal hole in the metaphysical floor of the shrine. The kind that glowed slightly off-turquoise and was legally classified as "somewhat divine, possibly cursed."

We stepped into Apostix's domain: a sub-dimensional filing architecture, stitched into the Doctrine Cloud. It looked like a server room mated with an exorcist's pantry.

Shelves of forms shimmered with memory residue. Some of them sobbed. Others hummed "Processing…" in spiritual tongues. A few occasionally self-combusted when ignored.

"This is the Archive of Acknowledged Denials," Apostix said.

"Is that a joke?"

"It was the result of a naming vote. I abstained."

We passed a prayer verification loop labeled:

"Amen (v2.1): Beta Routing Build for Subscription-Based Miracle Services."

Then a corrupted fiscal sanctum with a melted WP cache and a plaque that simply read:

"Divine Overdraft Triggered: Tithes Withheld Due to Interfaith Conversion Glitch."

And finally—a small cubicle, flickering with denial scripts.

It bore the label:

'Unverified Rekka Anomaly — Faith Redistribution Pattern Detected.'

I stopped.

"That's her," I said. "That's the shrine we audited in the one Kingdom, what was it called?"

Kirin stepped forward. Her scale gave a small twitch. Balance discomfort. "The faith signature matches. The rerouting schema too."

Apostix hovered nearby, adjusting a halo made entirely of denied receipt slips.

"Would you like to file a Suspicion Justification Addendum?"

"I'd like clarity," Kirin said coldly.

"That's Form X. Out of print."

I leaned in. The entry shimmered.

Status: "Filed under Heresy."Sub-status: "Pending Purge."Review Status: "Retracted via non-linear compliance clause."Timestamp: "Never. Probably."

"...So that's it," I muttered. "My audit report was rerouted through a compliance void and flagged for deletion before anyone could process it?"

Apostix made a noise halfway between a nod and a paper jam.

"You triggered Paradox Protocol 7," he said. "You're not supposed to know the file ever existed."

Kirin's jaw tensed. "That's not a real protocol."

"It wasn't," Apostix replied cheerfully. "Until he triggered it."

We exited back into shrine-space with two things:

A half-deleted memory receipt of Sōma's audit.

A lead on a deeper anomaly—someone had intentionally flagged the audit under "heretical recursion patterns."

As I packed up my satchel, still fuming over the bureaucratic sleight of hand, Apostix floated beside me with the unearned serenity of a helpdesk AI that thinks your frustration is a feature.

"I can initiate a compliance appeal," he said brightly. "But you'll need to fill out the Refund Requisition of Submitted Faith Record, Sub-Affirmation Tertiary Alignment—Annex Version."

He handed me a form the size of an ironing board. It hummed when I touched it. Possibly in disapproval.

"Alternatively," he added, "you may submit a Lost Form Form."

Kirin raised a brow. "That sounds recursive."

"It is," Apostix beamed. "It's a form acknowledging the absence of a form you cannot prove ever existed. To request the form that proves it."

"And if we submit it?"

"You will need a Missing Lost Form Declaration, unless you are formally exempt. If exempt, you'll need to file an Inapplicability Endorsement co-signed by a Neutral Witness."

"I—"

"Wait," Apostix said, holding up a spectral finger. "Neutrality must be proven through a Balance Verification Clause."

Kirin's expression didn't change. But her badge quietly disabled its glow.

"Balance," she said, "is not a toy."

"Correct!" Apostix chirped. "It's a system of perpetual denial! Glorious, isn't it?"

I blinked. Twice. My thoughts now resembled a corrupted Doctrine Slide Deck.

"I need a drink," I muttered.

"I have essence of archived compliance," Apostix offered. "Tastes like unrequited prayer."

"Go away."

As Apostix voice faded as we left through the rift—still whispering legalese about refund eligibility and metaphysical redundancy—I turned to Kirin.

"Someone erased that report deliberately."

"More than erased," she said. "They filed it under heresy."

"Why?"

She glanced toward the horizon.

"Because something in it was too close to true."