Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 107: "The Archivist's Burden"
The Celestial Archives were unlike any place Ne Job had ever seen.
If the Bureau was a labyrinth of regulations, the Archives were an ocean — endless, shimmering, and impossibly deep. Columns of scrolls floated in midair, spiraling upward into infinity. Every record glowed faintly with the essence of the soul it once documented.
And at the heart of it all stood a towering mechanism — the Resonant Filing Engine, its gears made of constellations, its hum the rhythm of the heavens' memory.
Yue exhaled slowly. "The oldest department in existence," she murmured. "Every file ever written, erased, or imagined passes through here."
Ne Job craned his neck. "And we're supposed to fix that?"
A voice answered from behind them — calm, resonant, and ancient. "Correct."
The figure that emerged was neither clerk nor god, but something between — the Archivist Prime, draped in translucent veils of data. Her eyes shimmered with flickering script, and her hair flowed like unraveling paper.
"Intern Ne Job. Assistant Yue," she greeted, inclining her head. "Your audit has reached us. You now serve under my division."
Ne Job forced a grin. "Great. I was worried Heaven might stop giving me impossible assignments."
Yue elbowed him. "Be respectful. This is the Prime herself."
The Archivist smiled faintly. "Respect is optional. Accuracy is not."
She gestured, and a column of fractured scrolls descended before them — burned, torn, and leaking light like wounded memories. "These," she said, "are the Erased Souls you freed. Each fragment must be restored to its proper timeline, without destabilizing causality."
Ne Job frowned. "And how do we do that?"
"By remembering for them," she said. "You will enter their residual records — reliving what the system forgot."
Yue froze. "You mean… inside their memories?"
"Yes," the Archivist said. "You will walk the forgotten corridors of Heaven's paperwork — the lives that were erased by bureaucratic negligence."
Ne Job looked down at the glowing fragments swirling around his boots. "So, ghost stories with paperwork. Great."
The Archivist's tone softened. "Be warned: the Archives remember everything, including what even the gods wished to forget. Not all records are peaceful."
Before Ne Job could reply, the floor beneath him shifted — reality folding into script. The world inverted.
Suddenly, he and Yue stood in a place that wasn't the Bureau at all.
It was a mortal city — smog-choked, rain-slick, trembling under neon light. Towering holographic banners displayed celestial symbols twisted into corporate logos. The people below had no idea Heaven existed; they only worshipped efficiency.
Yue blinked. "This… is a reconstruction?"
"More like a case file with feelings," Ne Job muttered.
A whisper echoed through the rain:
> "Case #913-B — The Clerk Who Tried to Forget."
A woman appeared under a flickering streetlamp — her body translucent, her hands stained with ink. She carried a ledger chained to her wrist, its pages dripping black.
The scene trembled. The fragment's memory played out: endless days, endless forms, a life devoured by perfection until her name was scrubbed from existence.
Yue's voice cracked. "She was one of us…"
Ne Job's fists clenched. "And the system just deleted her for slowing down."
The city warped. The woman turned — hollow eyes meeting his. "If you remember me," she whispered, "make it mean something."
Ne Job took a step forward. The rain turned to paper. The lights became script. He touched the ledger — and light burst outward, restoring her name across the Archive's endless sky.
They were back in the hall. The Archivist watched them calmly. One fragment, now whole, drifted upward into the constellations.
"That," she said, "is how you restore a soul."
Yue steadied herself. "And how many are there?"
The Archivist's expression didn't change. "Approximately twelve million."
Ne Job blinked. "…You're joking, right?"
"I do not joke," the Archivist replied. "You will begin with the first thousand."
Yue rubbed her temples. "At least we won't run out of work for eternity."
Ne Job smirked. "Hey, Yue. At least now we get to fix Heaven one file at a time."
The Archivist turned away, voice echoing faintly:
> "Be cautious, Intern. Some records resist restoration… and some were erased for reasons you may not wish to uncover."
The gears of the Resonant Filing Engine began to turn, its sound like thunder wrapped in whispers.
Ne Job glanced at Yue, who had already begun sorting the next fragment, eyes sharp with purpose.
For the first time, he didn't see paperwork.
He saw redemption — bound in ink and defiance.