Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 106: "The Heavenly Audit"
The sky above the Bureau cracked open like a verdict.
Through the fracture spilled radiant columns of light — not sunlight, but divine scrutiny given form. The beams scanned everything: desks, ledgers, souls, even thoughts. Where they touched, lies turned transparent and truths bled through.
Yue braced herself, clipboard shielded against the brilliance. "They've invoked the Audit of Realignment," she muttered. "It hasn't been used since the War of Ten Thousand Signatures."
Ne Job squinted at the descending figures taking shape within the light. Each auditor wore robes of shifting white, their faces blank parchment marked only by the sigil of the Upper Division. They hovered in geometric formation, holding quills that shimmered with authority older than the Bureau itself.
"Wow," Ne Job said flatly. "They really sent the heavenly IRS."
"Silence before the Auditors," Yue whispered, bowing. "They don't tolerate informal commentary."
Too late. One Auditor glided forward, its voice an echo from multiple dimensions:
> "Designate: Intern Ne Job.
Designate: Assistant Yue.
Violation Cluster #000-Ω: Unauthorized Use of Form X-Ω.
Consequence: Existential Review."
The words slammed through the hall like thunder. Scrolls tore from walls, data streams flickered, and a circle of golden light enveloped Ne Job and Yue.
Lord Bureaucrat Xian watched from the sidelines, sipping his celestial coffee. "Ah," he said casually. "The interns finally triggered it."
Ne Job shot him a look. "You knew this could happen?"
"Of course," Xian replied. "But I also knew you'd survive. Probably."
The circle brightened until reality itself peeled away. When the light dimmed, Ne Job and Yue stood on a vast platform suspended in emptiness — an infinite courtroom where the ceiling was the cosmos and the floor reflected their souls.
At the far end stood the Shard Court Judge, cloaked in fractured halos, eyes gleaming like cracked glass. His gavel was an entire constellation.
"Proceed with the audit," he commanded.
The lead Auditor stepped forward, unfurling a scroll so long it reached the horizon. "Charge one: disruption of divine processing flow. Charge two: insubordination toward superior authority. Charge three: alteration of bureaucratic ontology."
Ne Job folded his arms. "Translation: I did my job too well."
A murmur rippled through the celestial audience — clerks, minor gods, and spectral forms all watching.
Yue stepped forward. "Permission to defend, Your Eminence."
The Judge's voice rumbled. "Granted."
Yue inhaled. Her tone was calm, precise — every syllable honed to perfection. "Under Article 14 of the Divine Labor Codex, emergency amendment authority may be exercised when the system itself obstructs ethical function. The Bureau was on the verge of mass soul deletion. We acted not in rebellion, but in preservation of the Bureau's founding purpose."
The auditors hesitated. Their quills flickered. Logic strained against law.
Ne Job leaned over to her. "That was actually pretty good."
"Don't talk," she hissed, still writing arguments midair with glyphs of light. "You'll ruin the momentum."
The Judge tapped his gavel once — stars trembled. "Intent acknowledged. Outcome under review."
A new presence appeared — quiet, but heavy. The air itself seemed to kneel.
The Forgotten God of Paperwork, now stripped of his monstrous form, appeared behind them, head bowed. His voice was tired ink on ancient parchment.
"They speak truth," he said. "The Bureau's order had become rot. Their actions, reckless though they were, exposed the corruption I failed to see."
Gasps filled the chamber. Even the Auditors paused, quills lowering in deference.
The Judge's expression softened — barely. "Then you accept partial accountability?"
"I do," said the God. "Let their actions stand as correction, not crime."
Silence stretched. Then —
> Verdict: Conditional absolution.
Penalty: Reintegration assignment to the Celestial Archives.
Duration: Until all erased records are restored.
The golden light dimmed. The Court dissolved into swirling paper dust.
Back in the Bureau, Ne Job blinked as reality reformed around him. The Hall of Processing was alive again — cleaner, calmer. The backlog flowed properly.
"Conditional absolution," Ne Job repeated. "So… probation?"
Yue adjusted her glasses. "Essentially. We're now part of the Archives Reconstruction Task Force."
"Which means?"
"Sorting through eternity's deleted files."
Ne Job groaned. "So I saved Heaven just to end up doing more paperwork?"
Lord Bureaucrat Xian strolled past, smiling faintly. "Congratulations, intern. You're officially indispensable."
He handed Ne Job a new badge — gleaming silver with the symbol of infinity entwined with a quill.
Yue read the inscription aloud:
> 'Authorized Auditor of Paradox.'
Ne Job smirked. "Cool title. Still comes with overtime though, doesn't it?"
Xian didn't answer — just kept walking, leaving behind the faint sound of coffee stirring in the divine breeze.
Yue looked at the mountain of forms awaiting them and sighed. "Back to work?"
Ne Job stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Yeah. But this time, we file the heavens our way."
Somewhere above, the lights of the Upper Division flickered — as if amused.