Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 119: "The Shard Court's Verdict"
The Tribunal Chamber no longer looked like Heaven.
The once-perfect geometry of light had fractured into spiraling shards, each reflecting a different law, a different version of truth. Bureau scripts ran wild across the walls, rewriting themselves faster than divine order could stabilize.
Amid the storm, Ne Job and Yue stood on what remained of the floor — a half-shattered dais suspended over an abyss of unprocessed records.
The Forgotten Ledger floated between them, its pages glowing with both creation and collapse.
Across the chamber, the Shard Court Judge remained motionless. Only his mask — a mirror of shifting script — still gleamed, unblemished by the chaos.
> "The Bureau's core has entered narrative instability," a disembodied voice echoed.
"All divine clauses are under recursive review."
Ne Job grinned tiredly. "Translation: we broke the universe's paperwork."
Yue didn't smile. Her focus remained locked on the Judge. "He hasn't moved once. That's not normal."
The mask turned toward them. "Because I am not an entity," the Judge said, his voice reverberating like a thousand pens scratching at once. "I am the verdict that never ends."
The light around him coalesced into thousands of fragments — each one containing a verdict, a sentence, a justification.
"Every audit," the Judge continued, "ends in compromise. Heaven survives not by truth, but by revision."
Ne Job folded his arms. "So you're admitting it. You're the Bureau's cover-up machine."
"I am order. You are the error that keeps rewriting itself."
"Yeah, well," Ne Job muttered, "maybe that's the only way the script stays alive."
The Judge raised his hand. The shards whirled into a massive sigil overhead — a verdict rune big enough to erase them both.
Yue stepped forward, eyes sharp. "Ne Job, if he invokes the Final Clause, we'll be rewritten into compliance."
"So what do we do?"
"We file an appeal."
Ne Job blinked. "You can do that?"
Yue smirked faintly. "Every verdict has a loophole. Especially in Heaven."
She summoned her quill — not a weapon this time, but a key. Its tip glowed gold as she carved a single counter-script in midair:
> CLAUSE 0: Self-Audit Protocol.
The system may not judge what has not yet finished learning itself.
The Shard Judge paused. His mirrored mask rippled. "That clause was deleted."
"Exactly," Yue said. "And yet it still exists — because something deleted must first be recorded to be forgotten."
For the first time, the Judge hesitated. The verdict sigil flickered.
Ne Job seized the moment. "Hey, walking Excel sheet — looks like your update's out of date."
He reached for the Forgotten Ledger, pulling it open to a blank page. The Spark within him — chaos incarnate — flared to life, intertwining with Yue's disciplined aura.
Together, they wrote.
Their words weren't ink but intention — law and chaos folding into one script. The page glowed brighter and brighter until it began to overwrite the surrounding reality.
> "NEW DIRECTIVE: The Bureau shall remember its errors."
The chamber trembled violently. The verdict sigil shattered into light. Every forgotten file, every erased intern, every overwritten history began reappearing — not as data, but as echoes of existence.
Ghostly figures of former clerks, assistants, and divine workers emerged from the light, whispering names long redacted.
The Judge staggered, fragments of his mirrored mask breaking off. "You… cannot… overwrite judgment!"
Yue's eyes blazed. "We're not overwriting. We're auditing."
The final shard cracked. The Judge's mask dissolved into streams of text that scattered like ash. From within, a faint, human-like voice whispered — tired, almost relieved.
> "Verdict… accepted."
The Tribunal fell silent. The Bureau's sigils dimmed to a steady, breathing glow — no longer sterile, but alive.
Yue collapsed to her knees, breathing hard. Ne Job caught her before she fell completely. "You okay?"
She nodded weakly. "You just… rewrote divine law with a smart remark and bad handwriting."
He grinned. "Guess I'm getting better at my job."
From the upper dais, Lord Bureaucrat Xian stepped forward, the chaos reflecting in his calm gaze.
"The Shard Court's verdict has been rendered," he said quietly. "For the first time in Bureau history, the system has judged itself guilty."
He looked between them. "The Bureau will rebuild — under audit. Under both of you."
Ne Job blinked. "Wait, you mean—"
Yue frowned. "You're promoting him?"
Lord Xian smiled faintly. "Not promoting. Assigning. Every Bureau needs balance — law and chaos in tandem. The world must be rewritten, one form at a time."
Ne Job exhaled. "You're giving me paperwork as punishment."
"Welcome to management," Xian replied.
The Bureau's lights shifted, reconfiguring into a new emblem above them — two interlocking circles, one of flame, one of order, endlessly orbiting.
Rebirth. Rewritten.
Yue looked at Ne Job, soft amusement breaking through her exhaustion. "Well, intern, looks like we're responsible for Heaven's reboot."
Ne Job smirked. "Great. Does that come with overtime pay?"
She rolled her eyes. "In your dreams."
He grinned. "Good thing dreams are in my department now."
Above them, the Bureau of Heaven began its first true reboot — not of obedience, but of memory.
And for the first time in eternity, the system learned how to breathe.