The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

I woke to the sound of three celestial gongs, one disembodied cough, and the muffled voice of a deity trying to file a grievance through the wall.

Divine housing was about what you'd expect from an institution designed by immortal civil servants and never inspected again. My room had one window that didn't open, one bed that folded vertically without warning, and a shelf labeled "Mandatory Idols (Starter Set)." It came pre-stocked with miniature statues of minor gods—most of whom I suspected had never answered a prayer in their life. One was still shrink-wrapped.

I'd been in this realm for approximately sixteen hours. Five of those were spent trying to figure out how to flush the toilet, which required a spoken prayer and a wax seal. Another two were spent failing to negotiate with a vending machine that charged Worship Points for bottled water. The remaining nine were occupied with the Auditor's Welcome Packet—a hundred-page tome of euphemism and threat.

Highlights included:

"Avoid eye contact with divine familiars unless invited."

"Do not respond to celestial phishing dreams."

"Under no circumstances should you accept miracle samples from door-to-door priests."

There was also a note from Tamori written in lazy calligraphy:

If anything starts glowing that shouldn't, notify your nearest administrator or leave the continent.

I hadn't slept well. Not because of anxiety. Because the divine intercom system announced cosmic updates every thirty minutes.

"ALL SHRINE UPDATES ARE FINAL. DO NOT ENGAGE IN MIRACLE COLLISION LOOPS."

"REMEMBER: PRAY RESPONSIBLY. DEITIES HAVE FEELINGS, BUT ALSO LEGAL COUNSEL."

"CURRENT TEMPORAL SYNC: UNSTABLE. IF YOU HAVE MULTIPLE PASTS, PLEASE FILE A MERGE REQUEST."

By breakfast—which came in the form of a vibrating nutrient cube and something labeled Ambrosia-Like Gel (Non-Lethal)—I had concluded that I was either in the safest part of the afterlife or the most aggressively polite corner of a divine scam.

That's when Tamori knocked once, then entered like it was his room.

"Morning, auditor," he said. "You're getting fielded."

I blinked. "It's been one day."

"Exactly. Which means you're overdue."

Tamori smiled like someone trying to sell me insurance after setting my apartment on fire.

"Your first assignment," he said, tapping the scroll. "Congratulations on reaching minimum viability."

I unsealed it, expecting bad news. I was correct.

Shrine #HSM-88c: Hasamura Peripheral Blessing Post, 3rd Ward

Classification: Dice-Based Faith Services

Status: Operational, flagged for 'inconsistent WP routing patterns'

Miracle Audit Priority: Low–Chaotic

I raised an eyebrow. "Is this even real?"

Tamori nodded. "Unfortunately."

He sat down cross-legged on my bed like he owned it. "Hasamura's shrines are chaos incarnate. Miracles run on weighted chance. The priests throw dice, spin wheels, pull divine levers—whatever feels lucky that day. Worshipers love it. Administrators hate it. Your job is to... make sense of the nonsense."

"That's impossible."

"I believe in you less every hour," Tamori said brightly. "Which means you're learning."

He handed me a divine satchel. Inside were four items, none of which inspired confidence.

First, an outdated miracle scroll—creased, stained, and labeled "Emergency Use Only" in red ink. I unrolled it slightly and found a warning:

"May cause partial sanctification. Do not activate near infants, mirrors, or tax officials. "I looked up.

"Has anyone ever survived using this?"

Tamori shrugged. "No one worth mentioning."

Second, a half-charged WP transponder, which hummed like it was trying to remember electricity. I tapped the screen. It buzzed once, showed an animated finger wagging at me, then shut off.

"Why is it shaped like a duck?"

"It symbolizes divine balance," Tamori lied.

Third, a badge polishing cloth, because of course divine legitimacy depends on a shiny pin. The cloth read 'Official Auditor Shine Enhancer – Blessed by the Department of Optics'.

I blinked. "That's a real department?"

"Three floors below us. They take lint very seriously."

And finally, something that looked like a rice cracker wrapped in silk, tied with a gold thread. I held it up suspiciously.

"Is this my travel token?"

"Technically," Tamori said.

"It looks edible."

"It is." "It's both a cracker and a teleportation device?" "It's versatile."

"...Does it expire?"

There was a long pause.

"Ish."

I held it up and asked again. "This is my travel token?"

"It's calibrated to 'non-urgent arrival,'" Tamori said. "So you might land... adjacent."

"Define 'adjacent.'"

"Spiritually."

He stood and traced a rough square on the dorm floor with chalk. A light shimmered in the air—just faintly enough to make me nervous.

"Step into the square, bite the wafer, and think of gambling. Or chaos. Or very unlucky breakfast."

"This is the dumbest job I've ever had," I said, stepping in.

Tamori grinned. "You haven't even met the priests yet."

I bit the cracker.

The floor hiccupped.

And I fell out of reality.

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The world snapped back into place with the grace of a drunken courier—and promptly delivered me to the wrong address.

I landed—badly—on a welcome mat that said "NO REFUNDS AFTER RESURRECTION."

The air smelled like postage glue and passive-aggression.

All around me: towers of unclaimed packages, scrolls on conveyor belts, lost prayer offerings labeled "Undeliverable: Insufficient Reverence."

A small god with a barcode on his face floated into view, scanning me with the sacred expression of someone who had already given up.

"Name?" it asked, voice like a broken receipt printer.

"Sōma."

It blinked. "Not expecting you."

"I gathered."

"You've entered Parcelion's domain—Deity of Misdeliveries, Lost Offerings, and Misdirected Pilgrim Souls. Congratulations. You are now part of Routing Error #B-777."

I looked around. "How do I leave?"

It handed me a form:

'Standard Divine Misrouting Correction Request – Expedite Fee: 90 WP'

I frowned. "It costs WP to leave a mistake?"

The barcode god nodded slowly.

"This feels like a scam."

"Incorrect," it buzzed. "This is a premium rerouting service."

I sighed. "And if I refuse?"

A nearby parcel exploded into confetti and emotional baggage.

I paid the 90.

A door materialized behind me labeled "Definitely Where You Were Meant To Go, Probably."

I stepped through

Behind me, the barcode-faced god raised one hand and intoned with practiced indifference:

"Thank you for misrouting with Parcelion. Lost, late, but never on purpose."

Then the door slammed shut behind me.