The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

"Let me guess," I said, not looking up. "The gods sent you."

A pause. Not long. But deliberate.

"No," she said. "Tezukiri did."

"Which is—?"

She stepped into the ring with the kind of careful, calculated placement usually reserved for altar offerings and assassination attempts. She sat opposite me without asking. She didn't have to. Her silence had already RSVP'd on her behalf.

"Tezukiri, God of Balance, Bureaucratic Continuity, and Strategic Apologies."

She said it like a ritual—flat, practiced, without apology or ego.

"Never met him," I said. "Not a big believer in balance. Or gods who think that's a full-time job."

"That's because you think balance is fairness," she said. "It's not. Fairness is a story people tell children, so they don't riot. Balance is what keeps them from being crushed when the gods forget to look down."

"And that's what he does? Your god? Looks down?"

"No," she said. "He weighs. Quietly. Constantly. Without blinking. Without rushing. If your god answers prayers, mine performs audits on the aftermath. He doesn't intervene until imbalance becomes unrecoverable."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a great guy to invite to a party."

She didn't blink. "Tezukiri doesn't attend. He sends a ledger."

"He governs moderation. In doctrine. In systems. In justice. In people."

"Not in humility?"

"Humility is performative," she said. "Balance isn't."

I leaned back. "So let me guess. You're here to balance me?"

"No," she said. "You're already unbalanced. I'm here to make sure the scale tips correctly."

I studied her then. Her presence was like a perfectly written contract—plain enough to skim, sharp enough to bleed you if misunderstood.

Her eyes didn't stare. They assessed. Not reading me—projecting what I might become. And judging the statistical likelihood of failure.

She said nothing extra. She breathed in odd rhythms. She looked like someone who considered every sentence an investment with spiritual risk margins.

I shifted.

She didn't.

"So you follow the god of balance," I said, "but you don't speak like a priest."

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

"Then what are you?"

She tilted the brass scale in her hand, just slightly, until the left plate sank by a hair's breadth.

"Currently?" she said. "Your shadow. Your mirror. Your probability check."

"And after that?"

She didn't answer.

Just reset the scale to neutral.

And let the silence do the math.

I was still adjusting to the idea that my field assignment now came with a shadow, when the satchel at my hip began to twitch.

Just a little.Like an animal about to pretend it was dead.

Kirin noticed immediately.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Probably," I said, already pulling it open.

Inside the lacquered scroll case Tamori had smugly labeled "Field-Grade Report Transcription Module."

It was vibrating.

I pulled it out gingerly. It hummed in my palm with all the restrained menace of a bureaucratic ultimatum wrapped in a paper towel.

The wax seal cracked on its own.

The scroll unrolled—aggressively.

Kirin stepped back.

A pale blue flame lit along the top margin and a tinny voice, much too loud for the room, began to speak:

"INITIALIZING AUDITORIAL LOG —

CASE ID: HSM-88c — RECORDING BEGUN.

AUDITOR DESIGNATION: SŌMA, UNRANKED.

WITNESS PRESENCE: UNREGISTERED CO-OBSERVER.

RANK: FLOATING.

REPORT ENTRY IN PROGRESS."

I blinked. "It's never done this before."

Kirin raised an eyebrow. "Is it supposed to talk?"

"No," I muttered, just as the scroll coughed.

Actually coughed. Like a bureaucrat clearing their throat through parchment.

"PLEASE BEGIN SPEAKING. ENUNCIATE. LIE DETECTION ENABLED."

A single bead of sweat formed on my temple. I didn't know if it was from nerves or secondhand printer toner fumes.

Kirin stood at an annoyingly respectful distance, her hands folded behind her back.

I sighed.

Fine.

If the divine wanted paperwork, they'd get paperwork.

"Shrine HSM-88c," I began, "also known as the Hasamura Peripheral Blessing Post, is—was—currently operational."

"CONFIRM SHRINE STATUS: CHAOTIC."

"Yes."

"PLEASE STATE MIRACLE ACTIVITY."

"Standard rituals, dice-based prayer, one anomaly involving an unrequested auditor demo."

"PARTICIPANT?"

I hesitated.

Kirin's scale shifted by the weight of the silence.

"Me."

"RESULT?"

"Unclear. Possible manipulation by local priest. Possible exposure to unlicensed WP rerouting. Confirmed miracle delivery through unofficial channels."

"EXPOSURE TO DIVINE MISCONDUCT DETECTED. PLEASE SELECT ONE:A) REPORTB) ESCALATEC) DELAYD) CONTEXTUALIZE"

I stared at it.

Then at Kirin.

She didn't say a word.She didn't have to.I could feel her observing me in real-time: not emotionally, not morally—structurally.

So I chose the only honest lie I had.

"D," I said. "Contextualize."

The scroll paused.

The blue flame flickered.The air smelled briefly like incense and burnt pretense.

"CONTEXTUALIZATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE JUSTIFY."

I exhaled. "Miracle activity at this location appears technically unauthorized but spiritually effective. Shrine management may be rerouting faith through irregular channels, but results suggest positive impact on local supplicants. Further observation required before determining escalation."

"LOGGING: AUDITOR WITHHOLDING JUDGMENT PENDING ADDITIONAL DATA."

"Exactly."

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO FILE A TEMPORARY DENIAL?"

"Sure."

"REQUIRES WITNESS COSIGN."

I froze.

Kirin blinked slowly. "You want me to sign your temporary ambiguity?"

"It's not ambiguity," I said. "It's bureaucratic restraint."

She tilted her head, amused.

"Fine," she said, reaching into her coat. "Where do I stamp?"

The scroll extended a small glowing square. Kirin touched it with her thumb. A faint pulse of divine verification passed through the air.

"WITNESS COSIGN ACCEPTED.TEMPORARY DENIAL FILED UNDER SECTION 3.4B:WHEN EVEN THE AUDITOR NEEDS A MINUTE."

The scroll rolled itself up like a smug conclusion and sealed shut with a pop of spiritual wax.

My satchel stopped twitching.

Kirin watched me for a long moment.

"You hesitated," she said.

"I contextualized," I replied.

"Balance isn't about compromise," she said softly. "It's about clarity."

"Then I'm doing my job," I said. "I'm not clear yet."

She nodded once. No agreement. No disapproval.

Just acknowledgment.

Then she turned toward the corridor, the brass scale at her hip perfectly still.

"We'll see," she said.