Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 100: "The Factory of Forgotten Goods"
(Case File 003 — After the Department Store Incident)
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It started with a conveyor belt that never stopped moving.
Rows of boxes stretched into infinity, each stamped with faded Bureau sigils and mortal barcodes. The air smelled of rust, incense, and bureaucracy — like someone had tried to build heaven out of a warehouse.
Ne Job squinted as the two of them stepped onto the factory floor.
"I don't like this," he muttered. "Everything here feels… too alive for junk."
Assistant Yue adjusted her gloves, eyes scanning the dim expanse. "That's because it isn't junk. These are offerings."
He blinked. "Offerings?"
She nodded. "Forgotten ones. Every incense stick that never reached the heavens, every prayer note that burned halfway through, every mortal wish lost in transmission. The Bureau collects them here."
Ne Job's expression darkened. "And does what, exactly? Sort the dreams by expiration date?"
Before Yue could answer, the conveyor groaned — a deep metallic rumble that sounded disturbingly sentient. A single box slid toward them, glowing faintly. The label read:
> 'LOST ITEM #304-A: DREAM OF REBELLION — RETURN TO STORAGE.'
Ne Job stared. "You've got to be kidding me. They store dreams?"
Yue's gaze flickered, uneasy. "Not anymore. Most were sealed after the last Containment Act."
The belt jolted again. More boxes began arriving, faster, louder — their seals breaking on impact. Wisps of light spilled out, forming shapes: half-finished wishes, forgotten prayers, abandoned inventions. The air shimmered with voices whispering "remember me."
Ne Job frowned. "Yue… this doesn't look contained."
"No," she said softly. "It looks like the factory woke up."
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A siren blared — ancient, mechanical, divine.
Metal shutters slammed down across the aisles, locking them inside. From above, glowing script appeared across the ceiling:
> "CONTAINMENT BREACH DETECTED.
ACTIVATING AUTOMATED SALVAGE UNIT."
A shadow dropped from the rafters — a massive construct built from gears, filing cabinets, and prayer scrolls. Its head was a typewriter that clicked as it spoke.
> "Unauthorized personnel detected.
Commence item retrieval protocol."
Ne Job sighed. "Why do all Bureau facilities want to kill me?"
"Technically," Yue said calmly, drawing a glyph in the air, "they want to recycle you."
"Not helping!"
The construct swung a mechanical arm the size of a forklift. Ne Job barely dodged as it smashed through a row of boxes, scattering ghostly remnants of mortal wishes like snow. He landed in a crouch, sparks flickering around his hands.
"Alright, scrapheap," he said, "you picked the wrong intern."
The Chaos Spark flared. Red lightning erupted across the conveyor network, turning circuits into veins of living code. The construct froze mid-motion as its own gears began rewriting themselves under Ne Job's resonance field.
Yue watched from the side, calmly rerouting containment energy into a stabilization glyph. "You're overloading the network again."
"Yeah, well, I call that 'creative problem-solving.'"
"Your creativity causes fires."
"Controlled chaos!"
"There's no such thing!"
The factory lights flickered violently. The construct convulsed, typewriter-keys clattering like mad laughter. Then, with a single metallic groan, it stopped — frozen in place, covered in Bureau stamps rearranged into new words:
> "System Error: Hope Reinstated."
Ne Job blinked. "Did I just… fix it?"
Yue exhaled slowly. "You redefined its directive. It can't destroy forgotten offerings anymore. You made it… protect them."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Huh. Guess even chaos likes good intentions sometimes."
---
The factory grew quiet.
Every conveyor stopped. Every box ceased trembling. One by one, the whispers of forgotten dreams began to harmonize into a low hum — a song older than heaven's first ledger.
Yue listened, her eyes softening. "Do you hear that? Those are mortal hopes… finally syncing again."
Ne Job's grin faded into something gentler. "Feels… alive."
She nodded. "The Bureau forgot what it was supposed to protect. You reminded it."
He smirked. "Don't tell Lord Xian. He'll make me head of HR."
"Perish the thought."
They both laughed quietly — a rare, human sound in the midst of the mechanical vastness.
Then Yue's tablet chimed.
A new case file appeared automatically.
> 'DIRECTIVE UPDATE: FACTORY OUTPUT REACTIVATED.
BEGIN PROCESSING NEXT ITEM — CODE: GODFRAGMENT_01.'
The lights dimmed. The floor trembled again.
Ne Job's smile vanished. "...Yue, what's a Godfragment?"
Her eyes widened. "Something that shouldn't exist outside containment."
The factory walls peeled open like paper, revealing a pulsating crystal core — enormous, bleeding light. Inside it was a face — serene, divine, and alive.
The voice that came from it was not mechanical.
> "Who… rewrote my purpose?"
Yue stepped back. "Ne Job. That's not a machine anymore."
The crystal pulsed again, faster.
> "I remember… chaos. I remember fire. I remember you."
Ne Job froze. His heartbeat synced with the factory's pulse.
"Yue," he whispered, "I think I just woke up a god."
---
The world tilted — light and matter collapsing into resonance. The factory folded inward, pulling them both into a storm of glowing fragments.
As Yue reached for him, Ne Job smiled bitterly.
"Guess HR really was the least of our problems."
And then the floor vanished.