The Laziest God: A Masterclass in Procrastination

Chapter 5: The Currency of Slumber

The silence did not last. Before Jaka could even find the perfect angle for his head against the cold stone, his stomach let out a sound like a dying beast—a low, mournful growl that echoed through the empty shrine.

Jaka blinked, staring at the ceiling. "Great. Now I’m hungry. If I stay here, I starve. If I move to find food, I have to walk. Why is life so inherently labor-intensive?"

He groaned, rolling off the altar with the grace of a sack of wet flour. His feet hit the ground, and he trudged out of the ruin, stepping over the slumbering form of the knight, Ratna. He didn't even look back at her; his mind was entirely occupied by the singular, tormenting thought of a warm bowl of porridge.

The path to the nearby village, Oakhaven, was a dusty ribbon of misery. As Jaka entered the settlement, he didn't see the typical bustling life of a trade hub. Instead, he saw the hollow-eyed expressions of people who had forgotten what it meant to sit down. Every villager moved with a frantic, twitching energy, their limbs trembling as they scrubbed floors that were already clean, or hauled heavy sacks of grain back and forth across the square for no apparent reason.

Jaka leaned against a wooden post, his eyes tracking a baker who was kneading dough with such violent intensity that his knuckles were bleeding.

"Hey," Jaka called out, his voice dragging. "Got any of that porridge left? The kind with the brown sugar?"

The baker didn't stop. His eyes were glazed over, veins bulging in his neck. "No—no rest—must meet the quota—the God of Greed demands—the tax collector is coming—"

"I don't have any money," Jaka added, scratching his stomach. "But I'm starving. Just a bowl. Please?"

The baker shoved Jaka aside, his movements robotic. "Out of the way, beggar! The Tax Collector will have our heads if the grain silos aren't overflowing by sundown! We have no time for the idle! The curse! The work-to-death curse!"

Jaka sighed, his shoulders slumping. He looked toward the center of the village. Standing there, draped in silks that looked like stolen gold, was a man of immense girth: the local Tax Collector. He clutched a staff that glowed with a sickly, nauseating light, every pulse of its rhythm forcing the villagers to work faster.

"More! Squeeze the life out of the soil!" the Tax Collector roared, his face flushed with sweat and gluttony. "The High Priest demands excellence! If you die, you die—but you will die with a shovel in your hand!"

Jaka watched a young girl nearby collapse, her face hitting the dirt. She tried to scramble up, her fingers clawing at the earth, crying silently as her lungs gasped for air she couldn't seem to find. She was being worked to death, her life force being syphoned by the Tax Collector’s staff to pay a debt that never ended.

Jaka walked over to her. He didn't want to play hero. Heroes were sweaty, and they usually ended up fighting people. But the girl’s crying was loud, and it was cutting into his precious, hungry mood.

"You're making a lot of noise," Jaka muttered, reaching down. He didn't use a sword or a spell. He simply rested his hand, heavy with the weight of pure, unadulterated laziness, on her shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous. The girl’s eyes widened, then fluttered shut. Her body, once rigid with the frantic, cursed energy of the Tax Collector, went completely limp. She didn't faint from exhaustion; she fell into a state of profound, absolute, restorative rest. A small, dreamy smile tugged at the corner of her lips as her stress-induced pallor vanished, replaced by the flush of someone who had just woken up from the best nap of their life.

The Tax Collector turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw the boy. "You! What do you think you’re doing? Get back to work, girl! You haven't filled your bucket!"

He marched toward Jaka, his staff pulsing with greed-light. "You there! You’re the one who caused that girl to stop! That is labor theft! I will have you executed for—"

Jaka didn't let him finish. He stood up, yawning, and reached out, tapping the Tax Collector’s heavy, silk-clad stomach with a single, lazy finger.

"Too much effort," Jaka whispered. "Just sleep."

The Tax Collector froze. The glow of his staff flickered and died. His eyes went wide, the cruelty draining from his face as he blinked, confused, and then simply folded like a collapsed tent. He hit the ground with a soft thud, his snoring echoing louder than his previous shouting.

The entire village went deathly silent.

The baker stopped kneading. The farmers dropped their sacks. They looked at the Tax Collector, then at the girl, and finally at Jaka, who was currently reaching into the baker’s kitchen and grabbing a wooden bowl of steaming porridge.

"Thanks," Jaka said, taking a bite. It was warm, sweet, and perfect. "You guys should try resting sometime. It’s actually pretty great."

He turned to walk away, but the villagers were no longer looking at him with suspicion. They were looking at him with tears—real, hot tears streaming down their weary faces. The weight of the curse had lifted from the entire square. They felt, for the first time in years, the absence of the 'Work-to-Death' burden.

"A miracle..." someone whispered.

"He touched us, and the pain... it just went away," a woman sobbed, falling to her knees to embrace her child. "He’s a Saint of Sleep! He’s come to save us from the madness!"

"Is it true?" an old man gasped, clutching his chest. "Does he really bring peace to those who stop moving?"

Word didn't just spread; it ignited like wildfire. Within minutes, the downtrodden laborers of the village began to drop their tools, forming a makeshift circle around the boy who was simply trying to finish his meal. They saw him not as a beggar, but as a living bridge to a world where they didn't have to suffer. A legend was being born in the dust of Oakhaven: the tale of the God who paid for his bread with nothing but the gift of a dream.

High above, hidden in the shadows of a rooftop, a figure watched. He was draped in dark, functional leather—a spy from the Capital, his eyes recording every detail with cold, mechanical precision. He gripped the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white.

"The rumors were true," the spy whispered into the darkness, his voice devoid of emotion, yet filled with a chilling, sharpening malice. "He isn't just a parasite. He is a catalyst. If he stays alive, the entire kingdom’s economy will dissolve into a giant, peaceful dream."

He pulled out a small, metallic bird—a recording device for the High Priest. He fed his own vitality into it, his eyes fixed on Jaka’s back.

"Target located," the spy hissed, his gaze sharpening. "Prepare the purging strike. The boy is not just a nuisance. He is an infection that must be excised, or the gods of work will never permit us to sleep again."