Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 105: "The Forms of Finality"
The wind in Heaven's Bureau smelled faintly of ink and ozone. Rows of papers shimmered in the dim corridor like scales on a serpent, writhing faintly as divine energy pulsed through them. Assistant Yue moved between the stacks with calculated urgency — not panic, but purpose. Her fingers brushed across glyphs glowing in pale blue, her lips murmuring audit codes faster than the mortal eye could follow.
Ne Job followed a step behind, arms full of folders that hissed, flapped, and occasionally tried to bite.
"Remind me again," he muttered, tightening his grip, "why every form in this department is alive?"
"Because Bureaucrat Xian believed self-filing documents would save time," Yue replied dryly, never slowing. "He didn't account for the fact that sentience makes paperwork rebellious."
"Of course he didn't," Ne Job sighed. "The man probably thinks empathy's a sub-department."
They emerged into the main Hall of Processing — a vast dome lined with glass conduits, each containing a stream of light flowing upward. The lights were souls, each packet waiting for celestial clearance. Normally, the hall buzzed with divine clerks and floating pens. Now it was silent.
Yue stopped. "They've already started the purge."
Ne Job squinted. "Purge?"
She turned, holding out a form stamped with the sigil of the Shard Court. "Every soul backlog tied to the Mortal Disaster files is being reclassified under Section Null. Once that's finalized, the Bureau will erase the records — permanently. No reincarnation, no ascension, just… gone."
Ne Job frowned. "That's not administration. That's execution."
"Exactly."
The air trembled. In the distance, the Forgotten God of Paperwork loomed, half-shrouded in scrolls that dragged like funeral veils. His many arms scrawled endlessly across infinite sheets, each stroke birthing another edict of oblivion.
Yue raised a hand. "We stop him here. Or everything we've done dies with the ink."
Ne Job's pulse thudded. "No pressure then."
He dropped the folders, kicked one open — and unleashed the chaos inside. A thousand rebellious forms flew into the air, swirling like a paper storm. Each one screamed administrative jargon. "INVALID ENTRY! DUPLICATE RECORD! UNAUTHORIZED EDIT!"
The Forgotten God paused mid-writing. His ink-dripping eyes rose. "You again… little intern."
"Yeah," Ne Job said, summoning a quill that glowed like a blade. "And this time I brought the audit team."
Yue extended her clipboard, the edges morphing into radiant wings of parchment. "Administrative Override: Article 47 — Emergency Amendment by Active Intern!"
The god's laughter was like grinding parchment. "You think to amend me? I am the system."
"Then maybe it's time someone debugged the divine OS," Ne Job snapped — and charged.
Their clash wasn't physical. It was procedural. Every strike was a counterform, every parry a rewritten clause. Glyphs exploded like thunder, regulations collided with rebellion, and the air filled with the scent of scorched paper and sanctified ink.
Yue's voice cut through the storm: "Ne Job! Use Form X-Ω!"
He blinked. "The forbidden one? The one Xian told me never to—"
"Exactly that one!"
Grinning, Ne Job drew the golden sheet from his jacket. The paper thrummed with absurd power — divine bureaucracy pushed to comedic insanity. He shouted, "Form X-Ω — Comprehensive Complaint Against Existence!"
The universe hiccuped. For a moment, everything froze — even the God of Paperwork's quills stopped midair. Then, reality folded itself politely into a suggestion box.
Yue stepped forward, her tone perfectly formal: "Filed. Approved. Effective immediately."
The dome cracked open, and the backlog of erased souls poured forth as streaks of light, each screaming with newfound agency. The paper chains disintegrated.
The Forgotten God staggered. "You—You rewrote protocol itself!"
Ne Job panted, smoke curling off his sleeves. "Yeah. Guess interns can make changes around here."
Yue smiled faintly. "Only if they have proper authorization."
They stood amid the quiet aftershock — pages drifting like snow.
For the first time in eons, the Hall of Processing was still.
Then a faint cough echoed from behind them. Lord Bureaucrat Xian stepped through the dust, immaculate as ever, holding a single coffee cup. "Well," he said mildly, "I did say the intern program needed reform."
Ne Job groaned. "You're welcome."
"Don't thank me yet," Xian replied, looking up as the ceiling cracked again. "You just triggered a cross-departmental audit from Heaven itself."
Yue's clipboard flickered nervously. "A full audit?"
"Yes," Xian said. "Every file, every act, every rebellion. And it starts now."
The dome shattered — light pouring in like judgment.