Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My first reaction was that someone was playing a prank on my service window.

After all, the first-floor lobby of our Civil Affairs Bureau sees all kinds of people every day.

There are people who, right before getting married, discover their partner has saved their contact name as “Mobile Mortgage.” There are those getting divorced who, while fighting over a foul-mouthed parrot, spend their time in the lobby reciting each other’s social media posts aloud. Then there’s the middle-aged uncle who has come in every Friday for three years straight to ask if he can register a marriage with his mahjong table, because “it understands silence better than my ex-wife.”

So, when an old man wearing a red apron with smoke rising from the top of his head handed over a divorce application, I simply said politely, “Hello. Your ID, please.”

The old man pulled a piece of scorched rice out of his apron pocket.

Pressed into the rice were two shimmering gold characters: Kitchen God.

I fell silent for three seconds and decided to respect the local eccentricities for now.

“Who are you seeking to divorce?”

“The Human World.”

“Is the Human World a natural person, a legal person, or an unincorporated organization?”

The Kitchen God slapped the scorched rice against the window glass, and a ring of grease immediately bloomed on the surface.

“None of the above. It’s the partner I’ve been shackled to for thousands of years.”

I looked at the computer.

Our PC tower, which is older than my professional tenure, usually takes as much effort to open the registration system as pulling a reluctant donkey. At this moment, however, it suddenly lit up on its own, and a form with black text on a red background popped up in the center of the screen.

Applicant: Kitchen God.
Respondent: Human World.
Marital Status: Bound.
Disputed Matters: Ownership of hearth-fire, fulfillment of prayers, year-end debriefing, burnt marks on pot bottoms.
Mediator: Jiang Mian.
Remarks: This staff member has been selected as the Public Spouse.

My brain gave a loud buzz.

Public what?

I’ve worked at the Civil Affairs Bureau for two years, and my highest honor was being named last month’s “Star of Not Stamping the Seal Upside Down.” I didn’t expect my career to suddenly level up, turning me directly into a Public Spouse.

I pressed the intercom, wanting to call the director.

Once the call connected, the director said in a low voice, “Xiao Jiang, stay calm.”

“Director, a deity is here for a divorce.”

“I see it.”

“The System says I’m a Public Spouse.”

“I see that too.”

“Does this count as a personnel transfer?”

The director was silent for a moment on the other end. “For now, consider it overtime.”

Just as I was about to lose my temper, the lobby’s PA system suddenly crackled to life.

“Attention Comrade Jiang Mian at Window One. Starting today, This Bureau is undertaking a pilot program for supernatural marriage disputes. Please maintain a smile, follow the laws and regulations, and be cautious with your seals.”

Every single person in the lobby turned to look at me in unison.

The Kitchen God added slowly, twisting the knife, “Don’t be nervous, little girl. I’m just the first one.”

No sooner had he spoken than the ticket machine at the door began spitting out paper frantically.

The numbered slips fell to the floor like snowflakes.

A002: Yue Lao and the Red Thread Group request termination of labor binding.
A003: City God Temple and the Old Town District apply for separation.
A004: A tributary of the Yangtze River requests a cooling-off period from the Dragon King.
A005: All streetlights in the city collectively sue the Night for cold violence.

I gripped my mouse, suddenly feeling as if my life had been stuffed into a clay pot left over an open flame.

To make matters worse, another line of text popped up on the System:

Please complete one hundred and eight mediations before midnight tonight, otherwise all intimate relationships in this city will automatically enter the cancellation process.

The lobby went silent.

Then, a young couple who had been preparing to get their marriage certificate asked timidly, “What does ‘cancellation process’ mean?”

The Kitchen God answered for me: “It means when you two wake up tomorrow morning, looking at each other will feel like looking at a shared bike on the side of the street.”

The girl wailed.

The boy cried too.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

Because I was the Public Spouse.

I could only open the first application and ask the Kitchen God with a smile, “Regarding you and the Human World, what are the specific facts of the breakdown of your relationship?”

The Kitchen God sighed.

As he sighed, every rice cooker in the lobby simultaneously emitted the beep for ‘Keep Warm’ mode.

“She hasn’t told me the truth in a very long time.”