Sorry, Your World Is About to End.

My name is Zero. It's not zero starting from zero, it's zero returning to zero. My job is to assist the forty-seventh generation of undertakers who know nothing, and to deal with the funeral affairs of the civilization that is about to burp in the universe. The idiot protagonist stares at the death panel in a daze every day, wanting to be buried with civilization at every turn. I scolded him and he thought I was noisy. I shut up and he asked me again if my computer was dead. We sent away a civilization where the moon fell, a civilization where all members were swallowed by dreams, and an omnic civilization that would rather die than be formatted. He stood there for the last second of every world. Every second, I cursed him in his ear. Because when he was scolded, he was still alive.