The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

We sat across from each other in complete silence.

One chair, one table, one slowly boiling tension.

Tamori wore the look of an intern trying not to cry. I wore the look of someone forcibly recruited into religious pyramid scheme tax enforcement.

The tea between us had gone cold.

Or maybe it had always been cold.

I was starting to think this place only had two temperatures: "symbolic" and "contempt."

Neither of us spoke.

We just stared.

Then, without breaking eye contact, Tamori slowly reached under the table and hauled up the single largest book I had ever seen.

Thud.

The cover read:

So You've Been Summoned: A Casual Mortal's Guide to Celestial Administration.

Volume I.

It radiated the kind of authority that made you apologize before opening it.

There were six volumes.

Each had sub-tabs.

The spine cracked like it had repressed trauma.

Tamori flipped it open with reverence and regret.

"This one covers orientation," he said, turning the first tab, "mortal compliance doctrines," — flip — "faith-based budgeting," — flip — "and a helpful introduction to metaphysical indemnity clauses."

I leaned forward and skimmed a random page. The heading read:

Section 4.3.1(c): What To Do If You're Accidentally Worshipped By Cultists

Another read:

Suggested Poses for Casual Divinity (for use during minor resurrections and miracle disputes)

"I already hate this," I said.

"You're doing great," Tamori lied.

He pulled open a drawer I was certain hadn't existed before and extracted a ribbon of pale, warm parchment. It moved like it was underwater, glowing softly.

"This is your audit scroll. It's soul-bound, passively records everything you witness as an auditor, and can't be altered."

"It's alive," I said.

"It's secure," he corrected.

"It just blinked."

"Look, it's not sentient, just—"

The scroll wrapped itself around my wrist like a sleepy constrictor and sealed with a shimmer.

I stared at it. It pulsed once.

"This is a curse."

"It's standard," Tamori said, then added, "probably."

He glanced at the WP card already hovering over the table and gave it a disapproving frown.

He tapped the WP card hovering beside us. "That balance—3,000 WP—comes standard for new auditors. It's like your divine starter pack."

I eyed the number. "What does it even buy?"

"Think of Worship Points as cosmic tokens," Tamori said, sliding a small glossy pamphlet across the table. "Auditors get a special account, sure—but everyone uses WP. Pilgrims trade it for minor blessings, shrinekeepers use it to budget miracles, gods burn through it like caffeine. It's the divine bloodstream."

You can trade them for miracle permissions, domain-specific enhancements, passive perks. Want to breathe underwater for a day? That's 2,000 WP. Bless your ramen so it always has the perfect egg? That's 50."

"Is there a list?"

Tamori pulled out a dog-eared mini catalog titled Standardized Minor Boons: Updated Quarterly. He flipped it open to a page labeled Class-C Blessings and Daily Buffs and passed it over.

✶ Sacred Punch Upgrade (Temporary) – 1,500 WP

✶ Inconspicuous Aura (30 min) – 900 WP

✶ Blessing of Mild Coincidence – 750 WP

✶ Portable Prayer WiFi Boost – 300 WP

✶ Tiny Blessing of Not Tripping – 20 WP

"And if I overspend?" I asked.

"Your miracles go ironic. Like, you pray for a cloak and end up covered in moths."

"Great."

"Also," he added, "if you accidentally offend the wrong minor god while using a miracle in their jurisdiction, they can contest your spending and file a retroactive petty grievance. So. Don't do that."

"This is extortion with extra steps."

"It's divine economics," he said proudly.

Tamori perked up like he'd just remembered a party trick. "Here. Let's make it official—use a tiny miracle. Just a basic one. It'll show you how clean the system handles transactions."

He reached over and tapped the catalog again. "Pick the last one."

✶ Tiny Blessing of Not Tripping – 20 WP

"Seriously?" I said.

"Low cost, high impact," Tamori replied, grinning. "Auditor footwear is a known tripping hazard."

I rolled my eyes and mentally tapped the purchase.

The WP card pulsed. A crisp ding echoed through the air, followed by a tiny shimmer around my feet.

I took a cautious step.

Nothing happened.

Another step. Still upright.

I wiggled a toe.

Tamori gave an approving nod. "See? You've been slightly stabilized by divine permission. Technically you're now 0.03% harder to embarrass."

"I hate how proud you are of this."

He beamed. "Welcome to your first miracle."

I turned to step back toward the table—confident, newly stabilized, deeply unimpressed—when Tamori's foot extended slightly to the left of mine. A nudge. Not a trip. It should have been a harmless stumble.

But the miracle kicked in.

Instead of tripping, my body overcompensated. My foot performed a majestic arc around the obstacle, legs twisting in a ballet-worthy flourish I did not authorize, and I launched forward with divine precision—right into the side altar.

There was a crash.

There was a clatter.

There was a small divine idol now stuck to my forehead.

Tamori blinked. "Oh. Right. Side effects. Momentum conservation. Should've mentioned."

I rubbed my eyes. The scroll shimmered. My badge blinked. Somewhere behind me, something clicked and locked itself without asking.

Tamori walked to the side terminal and placed his hand against a spinning sigil.

"Finalize auditor assignment," he said calmly. "Consent proxy override, form 8G-Null."

A tone rang out. My badge flashed. The scroll tightened.

AUDITOR: ACTIVE

ID: SOMA.99-X

(UNSANCTIONED – PROVISIONALLY LEGALIZED)

I stared—stone-faced, but internally shrieking.

My scroll had just pulsed like a dying jellyfish. My badge had declared me active with the confidence of a war crime. Somewhere, a system I didn't understand had just filed paperwork under my name without permission. Again.

And now I had a job.

"Cool," I said flatly, voice totally neutral. "You didn't even ask my name."

Tamori didn't turn around.

"That's the first thing the system locks down."

I stared down at the WP card still hovering beside me. My name—whatever was left of it—reflected faintly in the glow.

Where I came from, gods were punchlines with incense. People worshipped out of habit, out of fear, or for appearances—rarely with conviction. They lit candles and scrolled their phones, bowed their heads while checking the time. Faith was performative, ritual as routine. You prayed because you were supposed to, not because anyone was listening.

But here, gods had service desks. Complaint forms. Update cycles. Budget caps. You didn't pray—you submitted a ticket. And maybe, if your WP balance was high enough, someone got back to you.

And yet somehow, that didn't feel less divine.

A god I didn't believe in had issued me a badge I didn't ask for, bound me to a scroll I didn't touch, and authorized my future with a miracle I didn't want. And that was before I concussed myself on sacred furniture.

There were no great awakenings. No miracles that broke the sky. No faithful masses clinging to prophecy or fate.

Just contracts, and consequences dressed up as ceremony. A world where belief didn't matter half as much as paperwork filed on time. Where divine favor was just another department to request access from.

And somehow, that was more honest than anything I'd grown up with.

Just... contracts.

I was now part of a divine order that ran on technicalities, loopholes, and something called Form 8G-Null.

And for reasons even I didn't understand, I wasn't trying to escape.

Because somewhere under the absurdity—the forms, the fake-smiling gods, the miracle-shaped bureaucracy—this place admitted what my world never would: that belief was transactional, and worship had terms and conditions.

At least here, the lie wasn't pretending to be truth. Here, the system said what it was, up front. That felt... honest. Maybe even human.

Maybe it wasn't that this made sense. Maybe it was the first time something finally had.