The sky tore open with the sound of a million filing cabinets being upended at once. Scrolls of celestial legislation unfurled like ticker tape, divine rubber stamps rained down like hail, and the very air smelled of ink, ozone, and the particular brand of existential dread only achievable through truly inspired bureaucratic horror.
What emerged from the tear in reality was neither god nor beast, but something far worse—the Pantheon's final form.
A writhing mass of quill pens, floating seals, and too many eyes—all of them judging. Its body shifted between corporeal and conceptual, one moment a towering monstrosity of parchment and red tape, the next a disembodied chorus of *"per Article 37-B subsection 12..."* that made the ground itself flinch.
The Death Queen took one look at the abomination and immediately pulled out a flask. "Darling, I refuse to die to something that smells like a tax office."
Li Qing's frost formed a protective barrier—which the creature immediately flagged as an "unpermitted metaphysical structure" and began generating citations for.
But the real problem became apparent when it turned its thousand-eyed gaze on Luo Feng and spoke:
"ECLIPSE BEARER. YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED OF PENDING ADMINISTRATIVE ACTION. PLEASE SUBMIT FORM AE-23 (APOCALYPSE PERMIT APPLICATION) IN TRIPLICATE WITHIN 5 BUSINESS DAYS OR FACE TERMINATION (LITERAL)."
Luo Feng's Eclipse form, mid-power-up, glitched.
His cosmic energies stuttered. His divine coding hit a syntax error. For one horrifying moment, he was trapped in the ultimate cosmic catch-22—unable to fight back because his paperwork wasn't in order.
The Fox Spirit, being the only one completely immune to bureaucratic nonsense, took immediate advantage. With a cackle that echoed through the divine court system, she lunged—not at the monster, but at the floating mountain of forms trailing behind it.
"Let me help with that," she sang, her tails igniting the sacred parchment with gleeful abandon. "Oops! Looks like your 'proof of divinity' just became 'proof of being terrible at your jobs'!"
The creature shrieked—a sound like a thousand lawyers being told they were billing hourly—as entire sections of its form dissolved into ash.
Somewhere in the chaos, a plush demon set up a makeshift "Permit Application Help Desk" staffed entirely by stolen office supplies.
END OF CHAPTER 88