The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

"You're thinking too hard," Yazhen said, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. "Faith does that to people. You start with doubt, then find logic, then end up accidentally respecting something. Tragic, really."

"I'm not respecting anything," I said.

"Mm." He patted me twice. "So you're ready for the miracle demo."

"No."

"You'll want to see this," he said, stepping ahead of me with the confidence of someone who knew I was already following. "Pure shrine experience. Devotional entertainment. Hasamura's personal branding exercise."

He gestured toward a velvet platform, which I now realized was decorated with—of course—dice motifs, subtle warding runes, and a single illuminated inscription that read:

"The House Always Speaks Second."

The name alone made me nervous.

"I'm not participating," I said.

"No participation necessary." Yazhen grinned. "You just sit, sip your possibly-blessed beverage, and observe."

A small priest floated by and handed me a pamphlet.

I read it.

"Welcome to Hasamura's Signature Ritual Experience™:

An Auditor-Sanctioned, Single-Player Miracle Trial.

Audience Participation: Passive.

Outcome: Variable.

Reversibility: Low."

I narrowed my eyes. "This says 'single-player.'"

Yazhen nodded. "Correct."

"Then why are you stepping onto the platform?"

He smiled like a man walking you into your own grave. "Because someone's gotta demonstrate."

The altar shimmered.

A set of dice floated into view—hovering gently, like they'd been waiting.

My WP card buzzed.

I looked down.

–250 WP

MIRACLE PARTICIPATION: INITIATED

"…What?"

Yazhen held up his hands, innocent as a saint caught fencing relics.

"Don't look at me," he said. "You tapped the card. You stood in the ring. You said 'no' with just enough faith to count as consent."

"That's not—"

"The miracle agrees," he said.

The dice rotated.

The crowd leaned in.

I stared at him. "This is a trap."

"Of course it is," he said, smiling wider. "What do you think faith is?"

The sigils lit. The altar pulsed.

And the dice fell into my hand.

The dice hit my hand like a dare.

Not a roll. A pronouncement. A sound with weight. With syntax. The kind of sound you didn't forget. The kind of sound that made you start praying before you realized you'd done it.

And somehow, I was the one standing too close.

Yazhen didn't move. He stood there, arms open—not in welcome, not in worship, but like a magician waiting for applause that hadn't come yet.

The miracle activated.

A scroll—faintly glowing, edged in gold, embossed with script that twisted under your gaze—floated down from nowhere. It rotated lazily as it descended, like a coin deciding whether to be heads or tails.

It landed in Yazhen's hand.

He caught it without looking.

And he smiled like someone who'd just won a war he wasn't supposed to survive.

"Congratulations," I said flatly. "That's 250 WP well spent.

"For a miracle I didn't ask for."

"Oh, but you did," Yazhen replied. "You're looking for truth. I'm just dressing it up in divine stationery."

He turned, made a show of unrolling the parchment—like it was a menu. Or a verdict.

"The miracle," he announced, "is called: One Honest Game."

The crowd murmured. A few priests froze.

A phrase like that didn't mean nothing. In a place like this, it was either a title... or a threat.

I took a step back. "I'm not participating in any ritual I didn't sign for."

He tilted his head.

"Oh, Sōma. That's the beautiful part."

The miracle flared.

And the dice moved.

No—floated.

Lifted from the altar by invisible threads, spinning lazily in the air like they were choosing their own rules.

The glow spread. Symbols bloomed on the ground in a ring. Ancient sigils. Probability glyphs. Sealed odds.

I felt a tug.

Not physical. Something worse.

Spiritual bureaucracy.

My badge lit up in protest, then flickered.

MIRACLE BINDING: PASSIVE CONSENT DETECTED.

STATUS: INITIATED.

FAITH SEVERANCE: DISABLED.

PROTOCOL: ONE HONEST GAME

I looked at Yazhen.

He didn't gloat. He just nodded.

"It's already started," he said. "So play. Or lose by default."

The dice hovered in the air—glowing, unblinking. Judging.

I hadn't rolled yet, but it already felt like I'd lost something. Possibly my autonomy. Possibly my remaining faith in the concept of informed consent.

"This game," Yazhen said, stepping into the ring, "was invented by Hasamura during a period of spiritual insolvency and unusually strong whiskey."

He caught the die from the air. The crowd stilled.

"It's called One Honest Game. Simple rules. Divine stakes. No escape clause."

He gestured as if teaching a class.

"We each roll once per round. High roll wins. Low roll contributes."

"Contributes?"

"WP, mostly," he said. "But sometimes memory. Sometimes time. Sometimes... rarer things."

"Like what?"

"Don't ask questions you're too mortal to enjoy the answers to."

I frowned. "And if I refuse to play?"

"You already did," Yazhen said. "Which, in Hasamura's doctrine, means you spiritually agreed."

The circle sealed.

The altar began to hum.

A bell rang from somewhere far above, and the first round began.

ROUND 1

We rolled.

Yazhen's die hit the platform and spun like a whisper. It landed on 5.

Mine clattered—louder, messier. 3.

Result: YOU LOSE.

Contribution Required: 10 WP.

My card buzzed. My stomach tightened.

Ten WP wasn't much. But it was mine. And the way the shrine drank it down felt… deliberate. Like someone licking their lips.

Yazhen raised a hand.

"One loss. One lesson," he said. "Each roll opens a window."

"A window to what?"

He smiled. "The truth."

ROUND 2

We rolled again.

My die landed on a 4.

Yazhen's—2.

I braced. This time, I felt the miracle activate behind my eyes.

Not a vision. Not quite. More like someone cracked open a filing cabinet in my mind and threw a redacted report into my consciousness.

Flashes:

A ledger.

A stream of unauthorized WP flowing upstream.

A fake lottery board repurposed to reroute miracles to unregistered believers.

Then gone.

I staggered slightly.

Yazhen caught my shoulder. "First taste," he said. "Still bitter?"

ROUND 3

We rolled.

Yazhen: 6.

Me: 1.

–30 WP

Emotional Stability Slightly Compromised.

I blinked. Suddenly I didn't trust my own pulse.

Yazhen continued as if lecturing an audience that had paid for front-row tragedy.

"You know the problem with divine order?" he said. "It pretends to be objective. But it's just another pyramid. Some gods demand temples. Others settle for slogans. But all of them want tribute first, help later."

He gestured to the shrine.

"This place is different. We give first. And cheat later."

ROUND 4

I rolled a 6.

He rolled a 6.

The dice froze midair.

The miracle buzzed. Paused.

TIE.

ENACTING OMEN CLAUSE.

A small slip of paper appeared between us.

It read:

"Truth must proceed. Cost will be divided."

–15 WP each

Yazhen chuckled. "Split the tab. Divine fairness."

Another vision burned into me:

A mother in a side shrine lighting a prayer candle. Her miracle had no assigned god. No backing. Yet somehow—her child had healed.

Behind her: a shadowy trail of altered transactions, masked sources.

Every number led here.

Every roll circled back to this shrine.

"Who else knows?" I asked.

"Only the gods," Yazhen said.

And then, quietly: "And now you."

ROUND 5

The dice hovered again—but this time they didn't fall.

Yazhen held his in one hand.

"I'm not supposed to show you any of this," he said. "I was instructed to entertain you. Smile. Stall you long enough for us to clean up. But that plan... fell apart."

"Why?"

He sighed.

"Because I lost a bet."

I blinked. "A what?"

"Three days ago. Ritual dice. Divine officiation. Hasamura in attendance."

He stared at the floating die.

"The terms were simple: if I lost, I had to reveal everything to the first auditor who walked through our threshold. No lies. No diversions."

He looked at me, and for the first time, there was no smirk behind his voice.

"I didn't expect you."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't look like someone who'd be sent here."

"And what do I look like?"

"…Someone who'd try to fix things."

The dice dropped.

Both landed on 5.

Another tie. But this time, no cost. Just silence.

Yazhen nodded toward the crowd—priests, patrons, desperate believers watching from behind velvet ropes.

"You can report us," he said. "And they'll come. The upper departments. The divine auditors with cleaner pins and shinier shoes. They'll shut it down. Refund miracles. Lock out rerouted WP. Say it was fraud."

He looked at me.

"Or you can do nothing. Let it run. Let the system stay broken in just the right places."

The game was over.

But I hadn't rolled my decision yet.