Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 95: "The Shard Directive"
The Bureau's ceiling—if such a thing still existed—was now a rotating mandala of law. Each ring spun with silent authority, inscribed in languages so ancient even Yue couldn't read them all. Every rotation shed motes of light that fell like ashes, rearranging the broken Archive into corridors again.
The Audit was over.
But the Directive had begun.
---
Ne Job exhaled and brushed soot-like data off his sleeve. "So, do we file a report or just wait for divine HR to show up with a pink slip?"
Yue scanned the corridor, expression sharp. "Neither. The Bureau doesn't terminate anomalies anymore. It redirects them."
He frowned. "Redirects?"
She pointed ahead. Beyond the glowing corridor floated an enormous shard of crystal—roughly the size of a mountain—suspended in midair, glowing with threads of gold and crimson. Symbols crawled across its surface like living script.
"That," Yue said quietly, "is the Shard Directive. The final failsafe of the Bureau. It activates when the system's integrity can't be restored."
Ne Job squinted. "Looks like a giant safety deposit box for divine guilt."
Yue didn't laugh. "In a way, yes. Every erased record, every deleted soul, every suppressed rebellion—the Directive stores them. If the Bureau collapses, it releases everything."
A hum vibrated through the floor. The air grew hot, thick with static.
> "Reinstating Continuity Protocol," a voice announced. It wasn't human. It was the Bureau itself, speaking through the Shard.
"Subjects Ne Job and Yue Hanzhen: integrated into correction cycle."
The corridor split into fractal paths. Each one led to a different reality—alternate timelines where the Bureau had succeeded, failed, or never existed.
Ne Job groaned. "Multiversal spreadsheets. Kill me now."
"Focus," Yue said sharply. Her tone softened an instant later. "If we enter the wrong path, the Directive will rewrite us as data entries."
"Right," he muttered. "Try not to get formatted."
---
They stepped forward together.
Each step pulled them through layers of Bureau history—living archives looping endlessly. Clerks repeating identical tasks for centuries. Divinities who once questioned the system, now hollow-eyed automatons filing cosmic reports that no one read.
Ne Job's jaw tightened. "They've been rewriting obedience for eons."
Yue nodded. "The Directive ensures no one remembers what was erased."
He reached out, brushing the air. Sparks flared—echoes of forgotten lives flickering in and out of existence. "These are people, Yue. Not just files."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "I know."
Then they reached the Shard.
Up close, it was terrifyingly beautiful—a prism of infinite reflections. In each surface, Ne Job saw versions of himself: dutiful intern, erased rebel, forgotten god, fractured spark. Each reflection mouthed a different word.
> "Obey."
"Forget."
"Restart."
"Remember."
He focused on the last one.
"Yue," he said quietly. "What happens if I touch it?"
Her breath caught. "You'll merge with every iteration the Bureau ever deleted. You'll remember everything they buried. And you'll cease to be just you."
Ne Job grinned faintly. "So… Tuesday."
Before she could stop him, he stepped forward and pressed his palm against the crystal.
---
The world erupted.
Memories slammed into him like a collapsing universe—whole centuries of bureaucratic wars, gods stripped of identity, mortals recycled through divine filing errors, rebellions smothered under paperwork.
He saw Lord Xian standing before the first Shard Court, voice steady as he said:
> "Containment ensures existence—but at what cost?"
He saw Yue's creation, her programming rewritten again and again until her empathy became a "glitch."
He saw himself—not born, but drafted—a chaos fragment given a form, assigned a name, told he was temporary.
The spark inside him burned red-hot, until it wasn't just chaos anymore. It was understanding.
When he opened his eyes, the Shard had changed color—from Bureau blue to living gold.
---
"Ne Job?" Yue's voice trembled. "What did you do?"
He turned toward her, and for a moment his outline flickered between forms—clerk, god, flame. His eyes glowed with the shimmer of rewritten law.
"I didn't destroy it," he said softly. "I audited it."
The Shard pulsed once, and the Bureau's voice spoke again—but now it sounded confused, uncertain.
> "Directive… reclassified. Chaos Spark: integrated. Result… undetermined."
Yue's gaze softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You changed the Bureau's core classification."
He shrugged, exhausted but smirking. "Guess I filed for divine ambiguity."
Above them, the mandala of law stopped spinning. For the first time in millennia, the Bureau's code halted mid-sentence.
A moment of silence. Then, somewhere deep within the system, something laughed.
It wasn't cruel. It was relieved.
---
Ne Job glanced at Yue. "So what now? Rebuild? Run? File a leave request?"
She looked at the golden light spreading through the cracks in the world. "Now," she said, "we rewrite."
He extended his hand. "Co-authors?"
Yue hesitated only a second before taking it.
The Shard Directive pulsed brighter, rewriting not with control—but with memory. Every erased soul, every lost record, every suppressed name began to return.
And at the edge of that golden light, Lord Xian watched with quiet satisfaction.
> "At last," he murmured. "A Bureau with room for imperfection."