I Just Wanted to Nap, But They Built Me a Religion

"He does nothing. And yet the world cannot stop watching."— Milia,

Log #350

Now.

Ezrel Dormir had been eight years old for two weeks, and the house was praying about it.

They pray to it.

Not for his health.

Not for his future.

But....

They prayed around him. Quiet offerings were left near his room.

Whispers in kitchens and hallways. A knot of red thread tied around

the base of a candle no one claimed to light.

Milia noticed every one of them.

She always noticed. It was part of her duties.

As a scribe who has been acknowledged, she will always follow him.

---

Ezrel had studied with five swordmasters, four political tutors, three

historians, two mages, and one deeply shaken priest. 

All of whom left muttering the same two things.

"He is impossible to teach...."

"He is divine."

Sometimes both and even complain about it.

He didn't fight the instruction given.

He just outlasted it.

He would stare. Yawn and do as told

But ...

Poorly.

Then nap through the fallout.

And somehow, the world kept bending to excuse him.

-----

Now Ezrel is attending his swordmanship class.

Sir Devian had returned for a final evaluation.

Sir Devian was one of the most powerful knights in the kingdom.

His father has used all his power and connections to get him to tutor Ezrel.

Ezrel arrived late, holding the training sword like it insulted him personally.

His hair was a mess.

He hadn't buttoned his shirt properly.

"Begin," Devian called.

Ezrel blinked once, stepped left, and let his blade dip half an inch.

Devian's strike cut through empty air.

Silence.

Then, one maid whispered:

"He sees where the blade will be… before it's chosen."

Milia's hands moved on instinct.

Log #351 – The Breathless Block

He does not defend.

He realigns fate.

The sword was wrong to challenge him.

-----

To give him a political lesson, Lord Dormir always hosts a mock council for him.

Little did he know that Ezrel was a seasoned politician in his previous life.

Today, mark the third mock council for this month that has been hosted.

While it is an effort to prepare Ezrel for politics.

It's also making Ezrel more longing for his rest.

After all, he was already bored with politics in his previous life.

Why would he want to involve himself now?

Ezrel sat upright for the first two minutes, chin in one palm. He made it

halfway through a sentence about grain law, then fell asleep with a sigh.

No one dared interrupt it.

Seeing his son fall asleep, Lord Dormir said.

"If he does not interrupt, your proposal is good."

The steward bowed with wet eyes.

Milia, hidden near the curtain, wrote fast.

Log #352– The Silent Senate

He sleeps through lies.

He slumbers through waste.

He will wake for justice alone.

----

It was time to train his blessing.

Not spellcasting.

Not chanting.

Just a noble heir and a priest-trained mage assigned to "gently provoke divine reaction from his blessing."

Ezrel had already mastered swordsmanship.

 So naturally, they wanted to test his blessing next.

The mage arrived early.

She set the safety wards.

Lit ceremonial candles.

Consulted a scroll of authorized engagement sequences.

Ezrel arrived seven minutes late with toast in one hand, mismatched socks, and an expression that could only be described as emotionally retired.

He stared at her, then glanced around the room.

"Where's the nap part of this lesson?"

"When..... can I rest???"

The mage smiled nervously.

"No need to act, my lord. Just react. If your gift is responsive, it may surface."

Ezrel yawned and scratched his head.

"You're going to throw something at me again, aren't you?"

"It's gentle," she promised.

"Uh-huh."

She raised her hand.

A thread of light twisted in her palm.

A soft kinetic blessing, tuned for practice strikes.

Harmless....

Just enough to draw out divine reaction if it existed.

"Ready," she said.

Ezrel blinked.

"…No."

She released it.

The strike flew straight at his chest, where his sigil rested.

Ezrel, without urgency, leaned slightly to the left. Like someone dodging a falling napkin.

The light missed.

It veered just enough to slip past his shoulder and disperse harmlessly against the wall.

There was a long silence.

Ezrel looked at the wall.

Then at the mage.

Then back to where the light had gone.

"...How.... the hell did that miss?"

He looked genuinely annoyed.

"You aimed straight at me."

The mage didn't answer.

She just slowly knelt.

And began whispering a prayer she hadn't prepared.

Log #353 – The Quiet Echo

He moved like a child dodging sleep.

And still, the world obeyed.

The strike bent.

The blow missed.

Not by aim.

Not by timing.

Because it was not permitted.

His blessing does not shield.

It refuses.

The world cannot touch him unless it is asked to.

She paused.

Then wrote in smaller letters:

I do not think he knows.

And I do not think we deserve him.

----

That evening, Ezrel locked himself in the guest bath.

Twice.

The door creaked.

Steam drifted softly through a cracked window.

He sank into the water, arms limp at his sides, head tilted back just enough to breathe.

Ripples moved gently around his chest.

The Eternal pulsed faintly under his skin.

Once.

Then it became still again.

Ezrel stared at the ceiling.

"What... do you even do?" he muttered.

He waved his hand. Nothing.

Snapped his fingers. Nothing.

He whispered a nonsense prayer to that entity who might be listening.

But...

Still nothing.

He slouched lower in the tub until his nose nearly vanished under the waterline.

"…Could've at least given me lightning fingers."

The spiral didn't glow.

The water didn't change.

The world didn't care.

Ezrel sighed, sinking deeper into the heat.

He wasn't afraid.

Just… tired of not knowing.

Tired of being called sacred by people who didn't have to carry it.

Tired of life.

----

After yesterday's practice.

Now, Milia found him asleep in the garden again.

He had collapsed beneath the tree, curled on his side, one arm under his head. Beside him was his sister.

Milia sit nearby.

Waited.

And eventually, he opened one eye.

"…You again."

She smiled. "Always."

He sighed. "Let me guess. They're still talking?"

"They said your silence unthreads fate."

"Of course they did."

She opened her journal.

He squinted. "You're going to write about this..... too?"

"I already did it."

Ezrel rolled onto his back.

"Did I at least do something interesting this time?"

"You floated."

"…In a tub?"

"Yes."

"They need higher standards."

She laughed.

He closed his eyes again.

Then mumbled.

"…Still not a god."

Milia whispered.

"Not yet."