The God of Ruin’s Pocket Change

CHAPTER 1: The Trash Can of the Universe

The first thing I tasted was the floor.

It wasn’t the polished marble of the Celestial Palace, nor was it the soft, grassy weaving of the Nebula Gardens. It tasted like vinegar mixed with old pennies. It tasted like a battery had corroded inside my mouth.

I spat.

Whatever came out was black, gritty, and burned my tongue.

I opened my eyes.

Usually, my mornings began with a view of the cosmos, a live feed of swirling galaxies and birthing stars painted across my ceiling. The light would be gentle, golden, and smelling faintly of jasmine.

Today, my view was a plastic bag.

It was blue, partially torn, and slick with moisture. It was inches from my nose. Through the tear, I could see something rotting inside. Grey slime. Or maybe it was just old noodles. The smell hit me a second later. A thick, physical wall of stench that shoved its way up my nose and sat heavy in my throat. Rot. Chemicals. Stale water.

I tried to inhale, but the air was wet and heavy. It felt like breathing soup.

"Valet," I croaked.

My voice sounded wrong. It wasn’t the thunderous baritone that used to command the tides of the Silver Sea. It was scratchy. Weak. It sounded like gravel tumbling inside a tin can.

"Valet, the bed is damp. Change the sheets."

No one answered.

A drop of water fell from the sky and hit the back of my neck. It didn't feel like rain. It felt like a lit cigarette pressed against my skin.

I flinched, scrambling to my knees. My hands sank into the ground. It squelched. Cold, oily mud oozed between my fingers, coating my palms in a film of filth.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

I wiped them frantically on my legs, but that just smeared the grime onto my jeans.

"Where..." I wheezed, looking around.

A narrow, choking throat of a street, walled in by towering structures of rusted brick and corrugated steel. The buildings leaned inward, blocking out the sky, leaving only a sliver of bruised purple darkness high above.

Dumpsters lined the walls, overflowing with garbage that spilled out onto the pavement like guts from a wound. Water, if you could call the oily runoff water trickled down the center of the alley, carrying cigarette butts and wrappers toward a clogged drain.

I stood up.

My knees popped. 

The sound was loud in the quiet alley. I stared at my legs. They felt... stiff.

I took a step.

I stumbled immediately. My foot hit the pavement.

"Heavy," I whispered.

I felt like I was wearing a suit made of lead. Every movement required effort. Lifting my arm felt like lifting a log. Turning my head felt like grinding gears. Gravity here wasn't a suggestion; it was a warden, holding me down by the shoulders, pressing me into the filth.

I leaned against the brick wall to steady myself. The surface was rough and slimy.

"Banishment," I said. The word tasted like ash.

The memory crashed into me. The High Court. The blinding lights. My father’s face, a mask of disappointment that spanned galaxies.

“You treat the universe like a buffet, Russ,” he had said. His voice hadn't been angry. It had been tired. “You take. You consume. You discard. You have forgotten the weight of things.”

“It’s just a few stars, Dad,” I had argued. “I was going to put them back.”

“No,” he said. “You need to learn. You need to feel the weight.”

And then... the fall. The stripping of my title. The sealing of my power.

I looked down at myself.

I was still wearing my hoodie. The Celestial Weave. It was the only thing I had left. It was pristine white, glowing faintly in the gloom of the alley. The mud I had knelt in hadn't stuck to it; the slime slid off the fabric like water off a duck’s back. It was soft, temperature-controlled, and indestructible.

It was the only barrier between me and this hostile, dripping world.

I shoved my hands into the front pouch pocket.

"Inventory," I commanded.

Usually, my hoodie pocket opened into a personal sub-dimension. A void of infinite storage where I kept my things. My collection of vintage comets. My star-yachts. My snacks—gods, the snacks. I had a stash of Nebula Truffles in there that could feed a civilization for a century.

I pushed my hand deeper.

I expected the cool, tingling sensation of the void. I expected to reach past the fabric of reality and grab a truffle.

My fingers hit the bottom of the pocket.

It was just... cloth.

I froze.

"Inventory," I said again. Louder. "Open. Access Storage. Password: Luxuria."

Nothing. The fabric remained flat. Dead.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. It was a physical pain, tight behind my ribs. I dug frantically into the pocket, scratching at the lining, trying to tear a hole into my own dimensional vault.

"No," I gasped, my breath coming in short, panicked puffs. "No, no, no. You can't take the inventory. Take the immortality, fine. Take the flight. But the stuff? That's my stuff!"

I could feel the seal. A magical heaviness woven into the threads. The Banishment Spell. My father had locked the door and thrown away the key.

My fingers brushed against something at the very bottom of the pouch. Small. Crinkly.

I pulled it out.

I held the items up to the dim light of a sputtering neon sign down the street.

Paper.

Two slips of green, linen-textured paper. They were wrinkled and soft with age.

I squinted. One had a number 10 printed in the corner. The other had a 5.

And three coins. Small, round discs of cold metal. One copper. Two silver.

"Loose change," I muttered.

This was it. This was my inheritance.

I remembered these. I had picked them up on a tourist trip to the mortal plane three hundred years ago. I had found them on a sidewalk and stuffed them in my pocket because the portraits on them looked funny. I had forgotten they were there.

Fifteen dollars and some change.

I looked at the trash-filled alley. I looked at the Ten Dollar Bill in my hand. It fluttered in the damp wind, looking pathetic.

A rat, the size of a loaf of bread, scurried out from behind a trash can. It stopped in the middle of a puddle, looked at me with beady black eyes, and twitched its nose.

"Do not look at me," I warned it, shoving the useless paper back into my pocket. "I am a deity. I will smudge you out of existence."

The rat let out a chittering sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, then scurried into a broken drainpipe.

I shivered.

The cold was seeping through my jeans. My sneakers were soaking up the toxic sludge of the alley floor. My feet felt wet.

I hated wet socks. It was a sensory texture I had specifically avoided for five millennia.

"I need to leave," I said. "High ground. The air down here is too thick."

I looked up.

High above the canyon of rotting brick, I saw a patch of grey smog drifting lazily. A cloud.

It was ugly. It looked like dirty cotton wool. 

I raised my right hand. I extended my fingers, palm up, in the universal gesture of command.

"Cloud," I said. "Descent."

In the Realm, the nimbus would have spiraled down instantly, forming a soft, warm cushion to carry me wherever I wished.

The smog drifted on, indifferent.

I frowned. I focused my will. I tried to tap into that deep, endless well of power that usually sat in my core.

There was nothing there. 

"Cloud!" I yelled, putting more bass in my voice. "Summon! Pickup at Sector Z, Alleyway 4! Priority boarding! I am a VIP!"

Nothing happened. The rain just kept falling, stinging my face.

A noise to my left made me jump.

A stray cat had leaped from a rusted fire escape, landing on a metal dumpster lid.

It was a wretched creature. Its fur was matted with oil and mud, sticking up in spikes. It was missing half of one ear, and its tail looked like a broken twig. It stared at me with yellow, slit-pupiled eyes that held zero respect.

I looked at the cat. The cat looked at me.

"You," I said, pointing a finger. "You are a creature of the lower atmosphere. You have connections. Fetch me a transport."

The cat narrowed its eyes.

It arched its back, the mangy fur standing on end. It opened its mouth, revealing yellow, needle-sharp teeth.

It wasn't a cute sound. It was a guttural, aggressive noise, like steam escaping a cracked pipe. It spat at me.

"Do not take that tone with me," I snapped, taking a step back. "I created the concept of whiskers! I designed the purr!"

The cat hissed again, swiping a claw at the air, then turned and vanished into the shadows of the fire escape.

I stood alone in the rain.

I lowered my hand. My arm felt heavy. My shoulders ached.

I looked down at my feet, buried in the mud.

And then, I felt it.

It started in the center of my torso, just below my ribs. A cramp.

It wasn't a gentle ache. It was a sharp, twisting knot that tightened and tightened until I gasped. It felt like someone had reached inside me and squeezed my intestines with a cold hand.

"I'm dying," I whispered, clutching my stomach. "The atmosphere... it's poisonous. My organs are failing."

The knot twisted again. And then, it growled.

It was a low, gurgling rumble that vibrated through my entire body. 

I froze.

I knew that sound. I had heard it in other creatures. In mortals. In animals. In the lesser beings I used to watch from my balcony.

Hunger.

I hadn't felt hunger in... ever.

My body was screaming at me. It was an engine running on empty, stripping its own gears. It was a biological demand that couldn't be ignored.

"I need fuel," I realized. The thought was terrifying in its simplicity. "I have to... consume matter."

I looked around the alley.

Garbage. Wet cardboard. A puddle that shimmered with oil. A dead beetle floating in a tin can.

There was no ambrosia here. There were no star-tarts.

The rain fell harder, soaking my hair, running down my neck. The taste of battery acid was still in my mouth.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivering that was starting to rattle my teeth.

"Okay," I whispered to the dark. "Okay."

I looked at the mouth of the alley, where the neon lights flickered and the noise of the city roared.