Chapter 5: Divine Duties and Technical Difficulties

Miko had officially become the Keeper of Balance.

She expected grandeur. Maybe a celestial throne, a regal proclamation from the heavens, or at least a cool background theme playing whenever she made an entrance. Instead, she was handed a stack of scrolls taller than she was.

“Uh… What’s all this?” she asked, poking at the pile with her newly enhanced divine-mortal finger.

The celestial arbiter—who had delivered her fate with such gravitas just moments ago—adjusted their silver cloak and cleared their throat. “Your responsibilities, Keeper of Balance.”

Miko squinted at the first scroll. “‘Celestial Conflict Mediation Guidelines, Volume 1’? ‘Form 32B: Request for Divine Dispute Resolution’? ‘How to Handle Petty Arguments Between Lesser Deities’?” She gasped. “NAI YO! I’ve been tricked into becoming celestial customer service?!”

The arbiter coughed. “Ahem. The Balance requires diligent oversight.”

Miko slumped. “Can’t I just, you know, whack problems with my sword and call it a day?”

“That… is generally frowned upon.”

Lysara patted her on the back, barely suppressing a laugh. “Well, at least you won’t be bored.”

The first few tasks weren’t so bad—mediating disputes between spirits, ensuring the mortal realm wasn’t overrun with divine interference, and stopping Solmara and Nocthar from throwing passive-aggressive shade at each other across realms. (They refused to be in the same room, so Miko had to relay messages back and forth. It was basically celestial high school drama.)

But the real trouble started when she tried to bring modern efficiency to her divine duties.

“Okay, if we’re going to keep track of celestial disputes, we need to digitize everything,” Miko declared, setting up a laptop in her newly designated shrine-office. “No more endless scrolls, we’re making a database!”

The arbiter, peering over her shoulder, frowned. “And… this ‘database’ will store divine conflicts?”

“Yes! Look, I made a spreadsheet!”

She proudly gestured to the screen, where she had labeled columns as ‘Deity Name’, ‘Complaint Type’, and ‘Resolution Status.’ Next to ‘Storm Deity Raijin’, the complaint read: ‘Angry about mortals inventing umbrellas, demands they be banned.’ Resolution: ‘No.’

“…This seems highly unorthodox.”

“Welcome to efficiency, daze!”

Unfortunately, the divine realms were not built for modern technology. Every time she tried to enter celestial data, the laptop flickered ominously, overloaded with divine energy. The Wi-Fi mysteriously refused to function in holy locations, and the first time she attempted a video conference with a minor water deity, she accidentally summoned a typhoon instead.

Then came the emails.

Hundreds of messages flooded her inbox overnight, mostly from disgruntled spirits.

Subject: URGENT - Moon Deity Won’t Stop Staring
Message: Hello, Keeper of Balance. The Moon Deity has been staring at me all night. I have asked them to blink, but they refuse. Please advise.

Miko groaned. “WHY ARE GODS LIKE THIS?”

She tried implementing an automated response system, but that backfired spectacularly when a misinterpreted keyword sent all complaints about “storm interference” directly to Raijin, who took it as an invitation to throw even bigger tantrums. She was beginning to think that divine administration was more complicated than fighting demons.

One particularly stressful day, Miko found herself stuck in a mediation between the Fire Deity and the Ocean Deity, who were arguing about the balance of heat in the mortal realm. The Fire Deity wanted more volcanic activity, while the Ocean Deity insisted that rising sea temperatures were throwing everything off balance. Miko attempted to suggest compromise, but halfway through, her laptop combusted.

She screamed.

Lysara, watching from the side, bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Maybe divine bureaucracy and technology don’t mix?”

Miko slumped onto the shrine’s floor, staring at the remnants of her once-functioning device. “I refuse to go back to scrolls.”

Eventually, she settled for a hybrid system—basic ledgers enchanted with self-updating script. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it didn’t explode. The arbiter begrudgingly admitted it was an improvement.

Despite the technical struggles and ridiculous complaints, Miko slowly started getting the hang of things. She mediated between elemental deities who couldn’t agree on the weather, calmed a group of wind spirits who had started a competitive tornado-spinning contest, and even negotiated a peace treaty between rival fox spirits who had been fighting over territory for centuries. (The solution: a shared snack offering schedule.)

There were still moments of sheer absurdity. Like when she had to track down a missing sunbeam that had wandered off and accidentally caused spontaneous sunburns in a remote village. Or the time a group of mischievous river spirits hacked into her automated notification system and started sending spam messages about “miracle water purification deals.”

Yet, through all the chaos, Miko found herself enjoying the challenge.

One evening, as she finished filing the last celestial report for the day, Lysara leaned against the shrine’s doorway. “You’re doing well, you know.”

Miko stretched, cracking her stiff shoulders. “You mean for someone who was recently a part-time shrine maiden and full-time streamer?”

Lysara smirked. “Exactly.”

Miko sighed, looking up at the night sky. The heavens still felt distant, but they weren’t closed to her anymore. She wasn’t just watching from below—she was shaping the balance itself, in her own chaotic way.

She grinned. “Hey, what do you think about a celestial live stream? ‘Divine Problem Solving with Elite Shrine Maiden, Daze!’”

Lysara facepalmed. “Oh gods.”

And thus, the first-ever divine Q&A session was scheduled. The celestial realms would never be the same again.