Akira Tanaka had always believed in just one thing: the Three-Minute Rule. Three minutes to read the email, three minutes to draft the reply, and three minutes to proofread the attached T-74 Reconciliation Forms. Anything that took more than nine minutes was working overtime.
Sitting in his gray cubicle, on the 17th floor of a Tokyo high-rise, Akira lifted his glasses to the tip of his nose and massaged his right temple. The T-74 Form was an insidious document. Filled with checkboxes that seemed designed by a bureaucratic demon specifically to generate performance anxiety.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound of the digital clock on his wrist marked the relentless march of time.
Three minutes had already passed.
"If only I could tackle this T-74 with a Divine Sword of Absolute Certainty," Akira muttered, thinking of his nightly RPG video game. "Or maybe the [Ethereal Archive Level MAX] skill."
He leaned over to reach for his coffee mug.
And that's when Mundanity collided with the Cosmic Absolute.
A flash, not of light, but of pure violation of physics, enveloped the cubicle. The sound was not an explosion, but the silent, perfect shattering of every natural law governing existence. The T-74 Form dissolved into a shower of particles that smelled strangely of ozone.
Akira, who was just about to take a sip of his coffee, felt himself being pulled away. Not up, not down. But out. Out of time, out of space, out of the very concept of "office." The last thing he saw was his coffee mug floating, motionless, halfway between the desk and his mouth-a monument to his interruption.
When the dizziness ceased, he was no longer sitting. He stood on ground made of vibrant blue crystals. The air smelled of storm and moss. Above him, there was no 17th-floor ceiling, but two giant moons, one amethyst-colored and the other molten gold, grazing each other in an eternal ballet.
He was still wearing his office attire: a checked shirt, dress pants, and, strangely, his company ID badge.
A voice, as deep as gravity and as thin as a whisper of subatomic particles, resonated not in his ears, but in his spine.
«I welcome thee, Chosen One. Thou who hast been judged Sufficiently Insignificant and Unbound to bear the Gift. Thou art the Warrior of Space-Time, the Champion Against Divine Tyranny.»
Akira looked around, trembling. "Excuse me," he said, his voice high and out of place in the majestic silence. "Can I pause this? I haven't sent the absence notification email to my manager."
The cosmic voice slowed to a halt. «Thy World is destroyed for thee. Thou art Free...»
"But the T-74 deadline is 5 PM today!"
«THOU ART A NASCENT GOD!» roared the voice.
Akira huddled up tightly. And right then, a translucent panel appeared before his eyes. Not a physical object, but a holographic interface.
[Isekai System Activated]
Name: Akira Tanaka (Alias: Provisional Space-Time Warrior)
Level: 1 (Freshly Isekai'd)
Class: None (Currently Unemployed Bureaucrat)
HP: 100/100
MP (Mana): 50/50
Unique Skills:
[Absolute Bureaucratic Flexibility]: The ability to apply complex administrative rules to any concept, including the destruction of Gods. Level: 0.1%
[Cosmic Early Retirement Bonus]: (Passive) Gain +1% damage resistance every time you complete a task that would make you hate Monday morning.
Akira stared at the panel. His eyes widened at the first new entry.
System Alert: Your Reincarnation and Transfer to this Dimensional Plane has triggered Fiscal Clause X-99: Unjustified Absence and Extra-Dimensional Income Reconciliation. Please fill out Appendix T-75 (Cosmic Exemption Request) within 72 hours.
Akira collapsed onto the crystal knees.
"No... The T-75 Form... It's worse than the T-74!"
And so, the greatest God-Slayer the Omniverse had ever seen began. Not with a heroic charge, but with a paralyzing terror of tax Documentation.