Day 12 of being a living doomsday device.
Current scoreboard:
Tail wags: 112
Continents with functioning governments left: 3 (and the number is dropping faster than crypto in a bear market)
Sentient beings who would happily glass their own planet if I looked slightly upset: roughly 4.2 billion
Today, Vritra decided I needed a proper throne.
She marched into the fortress courtyard dragging eleven former gods by their broken halos like they were misbehaving toddlers. Michaelus, Archangel of the Ninth Sphere, was still breathing (barely). Void-forged chains wrapped his wings so tight the feathers had turned black.
The demon forges were already roaring hotter than the sun's guilty conscience.
Vritra planted her sword in the obsidian ground and addressed the billions watching through scrying mirrors:
"Today the Heavenly Pantheon becomes interior decoration.
Today my lord finally gets the seat he deserves."
The gods screamed as demon smiths began melting their divine bones into ingots.
I was perched on a velvet cushion (yes, they upgraded me from the glass box), doing my absolute best to keep the tail perfectly still.
It wasn't cooperating.
One involuntary wag of excitement.
[Tail Wag Count: 113]
[Mass Suggestion injected: "This throne must be the most beautiful object ever crafted."]
[Every master artisan on the continent instantly abandons their current project and teleports in, eyes glowing with religious fervor.]
Ten thousand of the greatest smiths, sculptors, and jewelers in history materialized in perfect rows, already weeping at the honor.
Michaelus, one wing already liquefied into molten gold, glared up at me with pure, distilled hatred.
"You… abomination…"
I gave him the most tired shrug in recorded history.
"Bro, I literally just asked for a chair."
The tail, sensing drama, wagged twice more because it's an attention whore.
[Tail Wag Count: 115]
[Random Cataclysm Triggered: The sun permanently dims by 12%. New dominant religion founded within the hour: Church of Eternal Twilight.]
Vritra smiled the proud smile of a wife unveiling surprise anniversary renovations.
Three hours later the throne was finished.
Forty meters tall.
Built from divine skeletons, reforged halos, and eleven still-beating god-hearts for cushioning.
Michaelus was fused alive into the right armrest, his remaining hand forced to function as an eternally cold cup holder.
Vritra lifted me like I weighed less than a house cat and set me down.
The moment my ass made contact, every captured heart synchronized with my pulse.
The entire structure lit up with stolen divinity.
The continent shuddered hard enough to redraw coastlines.
[Tail Wag Count: 119]
[Title Acquired: Emperor of the Corpse Throne]
[All remaining neutral nations surrender without a fight. Surrender documents already en route by dragon courier.]
I glanced down at Michaelus. Golden blood streamed from his eyes.
"Comfortable?" I asked.
He opened his mouth. Only a broken whimper escaped.
Vritra dropped to one knee, wings folded, voice actually soft for once.
"My lord, the world is yours.
Speak your next desire."
I opened my mouth to say, "I just want a nap and maybe some peace and quiet."
The tail heard the word "desire" and lost its goddamn mind.
Twenty rapid-fire wags.
[Tail Wag Count: 139]
[Mass Suggestion injected: "Make my lord the happiest being with the highest happiness index in all of reality."]
[Every living creature on the planet drops weapons, tools, and common sense. Global construction begins on the largest dog park ever conceived. Estimated completion: six hours.]
Scrying mirrors showed armies abandoning siege lines to install tennis-ball cannons. Elves and dwarves and dragons cooperated for the first time in history to build infinite fetch fields.
Vritra actually looked concerned.
"My lord… are you happy?"
I stared at the burning sky, the screaming throne, the former archangel now functioning as beverage service.
I exhaled through my nose.
"Vritra."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Next time I'm about to voice a desire…"
"Put a bullet in my skull before the tail hears it."
She gave it genuine thought.
The tail wagged once in approval.
[Tail Wag Count: 140]
[New Prophecy etched into reality: "When the Tail falls silent, existence itself will beg for one more wag."]
I leaned back against the still-warm ribs of a dead god, closed my eyes, and listened to eleven divine hearts beat for me.
A thousand more chapters of this bullshit?
I'm going to need something stronger than alcohol.
Maybe heroin.
Or amnesia.
Or a muzzle forged from the concept of restraint itself.
To be continued.
### End of Chapter Stats
Tail wags this chapter: 27
Gods converted into furniture: 11
Active worshippers: 7.9 billion and climbing
Karna's remaining sanity: 0.03%
Chapter 4
"The Day I Accidentally Started a Religion That Worships Belly Rubs (And They're Winning Holy Wars With It)"
The ride never ends.