The Laziest God: A Masterclass in Procrastination

Chapter 9: The Collapse of the Busy City

"One... two..." Jaka counted, his voice cold, heavy with the weight of a god who had reached his absolute limit of patience.

The assassin, oblivious to the divine threat, let out another rattling, phlegm-filled snore that echoed against the ancient stone walls of the shrine. It was a sound of deep, blissful oblivion—a sound that, to Jaka, felt like a rusted needle scraping against his eardrums.

"Three," Jaka hissed.

Before he could snap his fingers, the violet aura surrounding his eyes pulsed once, expanding like a shockwave. It didn’t blast the shrine apart. Instead, it smothered it. The air turned heavy, thick as molasses, and the assassin’s face instantly twisted. The peaceful look of a child vanished, replaced by a frantic, sweating grimace.

"Must... scrub... the marble," the assassin mumbled, his arms twitching in his sleep as he began to mimic the motion of scrubbing floors with an imaginary brush. "Need... more... soap... the floors... must... shine..."

Ratna watched in stunned silence, her jaw slightly agape. "You just... forced him to dream of a chore?"

"He was snoring," Jaka muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders and sinking back onto his bed of dust. "I’m a patient person, Ratna. I really am. I can deal with heresy, I can deal with assassins, and I can deal with losing my citizenship. But I cannot deal with a lack of silence when I am trying to recover my energy."

Ratna let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, but it died in her throat as she looked past the ruined walls of the shrine. The morning horizon, which should have been bustling with the early-shift prayers of the Capital’s workers, was strangely quiet. Usually, at this hour, the sky would be streaked with the golden mana trails of the faithful commuting to the temples. Today, the sky was a flat, dull gray.

"Jaka," Ratna said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Look at the city."

Jaka didn’t want to look. Looking required effort. Turning his head required neck muscles. But there was a vibration in the air—a hollow, stagnant hum that made his skin crawl. Reluctantly, he sat up, his movements sluggish and pained. He peered toward the distant, shimmering spires of the Capital of Juva Dwipa.

In the distance, the usually vibrant metropolis looked like a corpse. Shops remained shuttered, their metal grates rattling loosely in the wind. The massive, golden-roofed temples, which should have been overflowing with thousands of citizens performing their daily rites, were empty. People were simply lying where they stood—in the streets, on the steps of the markets, in the middle of the grand plazas. They weren't dead; they were sleeping.

"It’s not just the outcasts anymore," Ratna whispered, her face pale. "The 'Anti-Work' energy... it’s spreading from your shrine. It’s reached the heart of the kingdom."

Jaka narrowed his eyes. "That’s not my fault. I’ve been right here."

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is," Ratna countered, panic creeping into her tone. "If the city stops moving, the economy collapses. If the economy collapses, the Pantheon loses their power source. They’re going to blame you, Jaka. They’re going to burn everything to the ground just to wake people up."

The air suddenly shifted, the temperature dropping until their breath hung in the air like frost. From the direction of the Capital, a dark, pulsing light began to form—a beacon of divine judgment.

"They aren't just sending soldiers this time," Ratna said, clutching her sword. "They’re preparing a public execution. King Dharma is using the panic to justify a mass purge."

Jaka’s gaze hardened. "Execution? Who?"

Ratna hesitated, her eyes shimmering with sudden tears. She knew the answer. She had seen the posters plastered across the city walls during her patrol earlier that morning. "Your father, Jaka. Karta. They caught him trying to bring you food yesterday. They’re claiming he’s the one who unleashed this 'curse' of laziness. They’re executing him at noon in the Great Square."

The silence that followed was heavier than the violet mist. Jaka didn't move. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, he looked as if he hadn't heard her. Then, his fingers tightened, digging deep into the stone of the altar until the rock groaned under the pressure.

"My father," Jaka repeated, his voice barely a murmur. "He’s just a sweeper. He spends his days cleaning the stairs of gods who don't care about him."

"Jaka, if you go to the Capital, it’s a trap," Ratna warned, reaching out to touch his arm. "They know you’ll come for him. They’ve lined the Great Square with 'Leaching Pylons.' They’ll drain your divinity the moment you step foot inside. You won't even be able to stand, let alone fight."

Jaka stood up. He didn't look tired anymore. He looked weary, a profound, soul-deep exhaustion that felt dangerous. He walked to the edge of the shrine’s raised platform, his feet crunching on the debris of the past. He looked toward the Capital, where the silhouette of the Great Square rose like a jagged tooth against the sky.

"Do you know why my father worked so hard, Ratna?" Jaka asked, his voice steady, devoid of his usual lethargy.

"Why?"

"Because when I was a child, I was 'cursed' with a body that couldn't stop absorbing the exhaustion of everyone around me," Jaka said. He looked at his hands, calloused and trembling slightly. "I was a living vacuum. Every time a citizen felt tired, I took it. Every time a worker wanted to quit, I took their stress. My father... he spent his entire life sweeping the temple steps, doing the work of ten men, just so the priests wouldn't notice I was the one keeping their 'divine' productivity high. He protected me by carrying the weight of my existence so the world wouldn't realize I was the one making them all so tired."

Ratna felt a tear track through the dust on her cheek. "He did that for you? All these years?"

"He thought if he worked hard enough, he could hide my 'laziness' under the guise of his own diligence," Jaka said, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips. "He sacrificed his back, his health, and his pride just so I could have a place to sleep. And now, they want to kill him for it?"

Jaka stepped off the platform, his boots sinking into the dark earth. He didn't look at the sleeping assassin or the solar-frozen pillar. His eyes were locked on the distant, golden throne room of King Dharma.

"The King thinks he can restore order by killing the only man who ever loved me for who I was," Jaka said. The air around him began to shimmer with a violent, violet lightning. The very ground cracked beneath his feet, the grass wilting instantly from the sudden overflow of his dormant divinity.

"They want to drain my power?" Jaka let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like cracking bone. "Let them try. Let them see what happens when the one who carries the world’s exhaustion finally decides to put the load down."

Ratna watched him, terrified. He looked like a god, but not a god of mercy. He looked like a god of the coming winter.

"Jaka, please," Ratna pleaded, her voice breaking. "If you do this, there is no going back to the way things were. The city will fall. The Pantheon will declare a total war."

Jaka didn't turn back. He began to walk, his pace slow, heavy, and deliberate. He didn't look like a hero setting off on a crusade; he looked like a man walking toward a chore he hated, a task that ruined his day.

"I guess I have to walk all the way there..." Jaka muttered, his voice dripping with a mix of sorrow and mounting, uncontrollable fury. "How annoying."