The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

The world resolved into noise.

There was shouting. Not the holy kind—this was the kind of shouting that happened when belief collided with debt. Two robed acolytes argued violently over the results of a dice throw, one gesturing at a velvet-lined altar, the other clutching a clipboard that glowed with faint red warnings.

Paper charms fluttered from every surface like unpaid bills. Lanterns pulsed in nauseating sequence, mimicking the rise and fall of odds on some unseen cosmic ledger. Every few seconds, a bell rang with the sickening confidence of someone who'd just declared bankruptcy and called it a spiritual rebirth.

A fountain burbled behind me, not with water, but a cascade of softly clinking coins and returned offerings. A sign over it read:

"Donation Refunds Require Divine Re-Roll."

The whole shrine looked like someone had tried to sanctify a casino, lost their nerve halfway through, and doubled down on incense and dice motifs instead. Wooden beams were carved with sacred probability tables. The offering box had a sign that read,

"May the odds be vaguely in your favor."

One wall was plastered with photos of "miracle winners" holding up certificates with fine print too small to be legally binding. A child posed next to a golden gacha egg labeled "Answered Prayer – Partial."

Behind a curtain of sequined prayer beads, I glimpsed someone lighting incense over a bingo board.

I stepped forward, and the floor tiles glowed briefly beneath my feet—illuminated symbols of coins, clovers, and weighted dice sliding across the stone like app icons.

This was divine bureaucracy's idea of luck. And judging by the smell of burnt hope in the air, it was also wildly profitable.

I hadn't taken three full steps before a man skidded into view on his knees.

"Please," he gasped, grabbing the hem of my robe like we were in a tragedy and not a divine amusement park. "Just a few WP. Just enough for one more pull. One more divine chance."

He was shaking. Drenched in sweat and glitter, as if caught between repentance and a confetti cannon.

"I'm not a priest," I said flatly.

"You have a badge! That means you've got a balance! I saw it hovering! You've got three thousand, right? That's first-tier! You could buy an omen and still have enough left for moral ambiguity!"

I tried to step back. He clung tighter.

A siren made of bells and off-key flutes went off. A golden rope darted through the air and tied itself around his waist. He yelped.

Two security priests appeared. Their robes bore Hasamura's sigil and brass dice ornaments that jingled menacingly.

"Unauthorized miracle solicitation," one intoned.

"Second offense," added the other.

The man screamed something about divine karma and vanished into a velvet trapdoor.

A voice behind me: "Ahahaha, wow, okay, not our best look."

I turned.

"My names Yazhen, owner of this establishment."

Yazhen looked like someone who could sell you your own shoes and make you thank him for the laces.

He was tall in the way shadows are tall—too clean, too symmetrical, like a wax figure that had learned to smirk. His hair was neat, but not flattering; his robe too crisp, the fold lines too deliberate, as if he pressed it daily just to hide the chaos beneath. His smile was all teeth and no warmth, like a poker player who never blinked and always knew what cards you were holding.

There was a shine in his eyes—not madness, not intelligence exactly, but the sharp, glassy look of someone who'd long since decided real morality was inefficient.

And yet... there was something tired in the way he moved. A weariness around the edges. As if all the charm and con had been applied with a shaky hand. Like the makeup was cracking underneath.

He didn't look like a priest. He looked like a confession waiting to happen.

"Don't worry about him," he said. "Very passionate."

He snapped his fingers. An attendant handed me a lukewarm drink in a cup labeled "Blessed Water (Probably)" and a voucher that read:

One Free Pull (Excludes Miracles, Boons, and Anything Useful)

"There you go," Yazhen said. "On the house. Complimentary audit refreshments. You're family now."

I stared at the cup. "It's leaking."

"Faith can't be contained, Auditor."

The voucher disintegrated in my hand.

He didn't blink.

Yazhen clapped his hands twice. "Now then—how about a little tour?"

Yazhen led me past a glowing archway labeled "Low-Stakes Sanctum."

Inside, supplicants sat cross-legged on meditation mats, staring into spinning wheels that whispered affirmations at randomized intervals. One repeated, "You matter statistically," while another said, "Your destiny is in beta."

A shrine attendant passed by with a tray of fortune slips. They read:

"Prayer received. Response time: divine backlog pending."

"You have been randomly selected for minor salvation."

"Please recalibrate your expectations."

"Great for beginners," Yazhen said. "Teaches detachment. Or disappointment. We encourage both."

We passed through the Blessing Bazaar, where booths hawked divine favors like discount incantations.

A stall offered:

"Slightly Warmer Soup – 40 WP"

Another proudly displayed:

"Dream Clarification – Tier 1 (no symbolism, no refunds)

"A third offered:

"Charisma Buff (+2) – Until someone calls you out."

A loudspeaker buzzed:

"Alert: Temple-Grade Miracles are currently at surge pricing. Please adjust your desperation accordingly."

Someone nearby spun a Miracle Capsule Wheel and shrieked when it spat out a glowing relic shaped like a spine made of coins.

"That's a jackpot," Yazhen said casually. "Spiritual fortification for seven generations."

"You actually give those out?"

"Of course," he said. "It's how we stay in business. No one plays if nothing pays."

In the Wager Altar, two elderly women chanted competing prayers at a gold-dusted dice pit. One summoned a mini-monsoon. The other set her shawl on fire in what looked like a tactical move.

A floating scoreboard read:

Ethel – 4 | Maiko – 7"Miracle Tier: Pending."

"They duel every week," Yazhen said. "Winner gets a Divine Realignment. Also a cookie."

A gust of wind tossed petals through the air. For a moment, the whole place shimmered with beauty. Then Maiko tripped and swallowed her own holy relic.

"Non-lethal," I asked.

He hesitated. "Mostly."

We ducked into a narrow hallway filled with backlit displays.

One case showed a man mid-leap, wrapped in golden light, holding a sword made entirely of stamped prayers.

"JACKPOT: Hasamura's Hand – 1-in-600,000 drop rate."

Another case held a child's sketch of their lost pet. The caption read:

"Restored from memory. Still occasionally meows philosophy."

Then Yazhen gestured toward the largest display.

A woman in clerical robes floated gently above a pond, untouched by gravity. A sigil burned behind her like a spinning die.

"Miracle-Class Ascension. Verified. No tricks."

I blinked. "That's real?"

"Oh, very," Yazhen said. "She won the triple-rolled High-Faith Cascade while praying on a coin flip. We still study the footage."

A moment of quiet passed between us.

Then we walked into a side wing labeled "Ritual Auditing Confessional."

Inside, a priest reviewed miracle receipts like a tax accountant possessed by divine irony. Another argued with a ledger that blinked in binary guilt.

"This is where we check the paperwork after the miracles," Yazhen said. "Some temples do it before. We're more results-oriented."