The universe had voted.
And Li Wei had won.
The notification wasn't a quiet email.
It was a system-wide, reality-shattering announcement that appeared in the sky, written in flaming letters the size of a galaxy.
[ELECTION RESULTS CERTIFIED: @ChaosBoy_Official has been elected the new Supreme Deity.]
Li Wei stared at the cosmic declaration of his own victory.
He did not feel triumphant.
He felt sick.
Oh no, Yin Mode's voice whimpered in his head. Oh no no no. I have to do paperwork now, don't I?
**
He was immediately teleported.
Not to a glorious throne room.
To a classroom.
A beige, windowless, and soul-crushingly dull classroom in the heart of the Celestial Bureaucracy.
A sign on the door read: DIVINE LEADERSHIP 101: MANDATORY ORIENTATION.
This was his prize.
Not power. Not glory.
Homework.
An ancient, incredibly pedantic immortal with a clipboard and an aura of pure, weaponized boredom stood at the front of the room.
"Welcome, Supreme Deity-Elect Li," the immortal droned, his voice the sound of dust settling. "I am Gan, the God of Proper Filing Procedures. Over the next three celestial cycles, I will be guiding you through the fundamentals of divine governance."
He gestured to a stack of papers on Li Wei's new desk.
The stack was, conservatively, a mile high.
"Let's begin with form 7B-stroke-9," Gan said with a flicker of something that might have been excitement. "The 'Request for a Minor Miracle' application. In triplicate, of course."
Li Wei was in hell.
A new, more organized, and infinitely more boring hell.
**
The days blurred into a monotonous cycle of celestial red tape.
His soul, a being of pure chaos, was being systematically crushed by the sheer, overwhelming force of bureaucracy.
Yin Mode was losing his will to live. He spent most of the orientation doodling pictures of sad cats on legally binding cosmic treaties.
Yang Mode, however, was thriving.
"Your system of prayer-request processing is archaic," he stated during one particularly dull lecture, his golden eyes blazing with the fire of pure, unadulterated efficiency. "A decentralized, blockchain-based system would increase transparency and reduce miracle-fraud by at least 60%."
Gan, the God of Proper Filing Procedures, looked like he was about to have a divine aneurysm.
"We do not use 'blockchain,' Supreme Deity-Elect," he said through gritted teeth. "We use scrolls. As the ancestors intended."
While Yang Mode was trying to optimize Heaven, Yin Mode was accidentally governing it.
A decree was placed in front of him. It was 500 pages long and detailed a minor adjustment to the gravitational constant of a distant, uninhabited galaxy.
He was bored.
He didn't read it.
He just signed it, adding a small, happy face to his signature for good measure.
Three seconds later, a frantic message appeared on the celestial news ticker.
[BREAKING: GALAXY 7-BETA HAS ACHIEVED SENTIENCE AND IS NOW DEMANDING THE RIGHT TO VOTE. ALSO, IT APPEARS TO BE SHAPED LIKE A GIANT, SMILING FACE.]
**
His new life was a nightmare.
And it came with an intern.
The old Jade Emperor, now stripped of his power and his dignity, had been assigned to him as a "transitional advisor."
He mostly just followed Li Wei around, offering terrible, outdated advice.
"You know," the former Emperor said, watching Li Wei struggle with a budget proposal for the celestial choir. "Back in my day, if the budget was a problem, I'd just smite the choir. Much more efficient."
He was trying so hard to be helpful.
It was just pathetic.
He would bring Li Wei coffee, but it was always a cup of pure, liquid cosmic order that made his teeth ache.
"Trying to stay relevant, old man?" Li Wei muttered one afternoon, buried under a mountain of prayer requests.
The old Emperor just sighed, a sound of pure, cosmic melancholy. "I just miss the validation," he whispered.
**
Feng Yue was not having a better time.
Her new title, "First Phoenix," sounded impressive.
The reality was diplomatic hell.
Her days were now an endless series of tea parties with the universe's most powerful, most passive-aggressive goddesses.
"Oh, Feng Yue, dear," Hera, Queen of the Greek Gods, said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I just love what you've done with the mortal realm. So... chaotic. It's very... brave."
Frigg, the Queen of Asgard, just nodded sagely. "One must allow the children to make their own messes, I suppose. It builds character. Or ruins galaxies. It's a coin toss, really."
Feng Yue sat there, a warrior queen trapped in a gilded cage of polite insults and celestial gossip.
Her internal screaming had reached a frequency that was probably causing distress to nearby star systems.
She was a wielder of the sacred flame, a scourge of demons.
And she was being defeated by small talk.
**
That night, Li Wei sat on the steps of the Celestial Palace.
The throne inside was cold and uncomfortable.
The air was thick with the weight of a million decisions he wasn't qualified to make.
He looked out at the sea of stars, at the perfect, silent order of the heavens.
And he felt a profound, aching wave of nostalgia.
He missed his messy dorm room.
He missed the sad potato water stain on the ceiling.
He missed being a nobody.
He missed a life where his biggest mistake was failing a test, not accidentally granting sentience to a galaxy.
Power, he realized, was just another kind of prison.
A bigger, fancier prison, but a prison nonetheless.
He had the power to reshape reality.
But he didn't have the wisdom to know if he was making it better or worse.
He was just a kid, playing with cosmic fire, and he was terrified of burning everything down.
**
The next morning, another decree was placed on his desk.
It was from Gan, the God of Proper Filing Procedures.
It was a 500-page document detailing the official regulations for divine attire for all celestial beings.
It was dense.
It was boring.
It was the single most tedious thing Li Wei had ever seen.
He was too tired to read it.
He was too tired to care.
Yin Mode was in control, and Yin Mode just wanted to go take a nap.
"Yeah, yeah, looks great," he mumbled, not even looking at the scroll.
He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.
Gan snatched the scroll back, a look of triumphant, bureaucratic satisfaction on his face. "Excellent, Supreme Deity. The new regulations will be implemented immediately."
He bowed and scurried away.
A moment later, a strange, collective gasp echoed through the Celestial Palace.
Then, a scream.
Then, a lot of very confused shouting.
Li Wei looked up from his desk.
A minor god of agriculture, who had been wearing majestic green robes, was now standing in the hallway in a loud, floral Hawaiian shirt and a pair of cargo shorts.
The God of War, Guan Yu, stormed past, his legendary glaive replaced with a pool noodle, his terrifying armor replaced by a "Kiss the Cook" apron.
The God of Death himself floated by, his dark, ominous robes gone, replaced by a faded t-shirt that read "Life's a Beach" and a pair of flip-flops.
It was Casual Friday.
In Heaven.
And thanks to his signature, it was now mandatory.
Forever.
The universe's dress code had just been permanently and irrevocably broken.
And somewhere, in the deepest, most orderly corner of his soul, Yang Mode let out a single, silent, logical scream of pure, unadulterated horror.
đź“Ł [SYSTEM NOTICE: AUTHOR SUPPORT INTERFACE]
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