Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 120: "The Audit of Eternity"
The halls of the Heavenly Bureau had never been this quiet.
Not since the First Filing War, not since the gods themselves fled the backlog. Even the wind — usually a whisper through endless shelves — had stopped, as if afraid to disturb the silence that hung over the place.
Yue stood beside Ne Job at the threshold of the Audit Chamber, the circular vault where all divine ledgers were written, sealed, and judged. The massive doors shimmered with seals of law older than the heavens themselves.
She adjusted her clipboard, though her hands were trembling slightly.
> "Ne Job… are you sure you want to do this?"
Ne Job didn't answer right away. His badge — the once-tarnished "Intern" plate — now glowed faintly, its edges radiating with bureaucratic authority he hadn't possessed before. Behind him, the lingering echo of the Shard Bureau still shimmered faintly in the air, like the aftertaste of a thunderstorm.
> "Someone has to," he said at last. "If the Bureau can audit mortals, then it's time someone audits them."
Yue's eyes widened. "You're talking about—"
He nodded. "The Heavenly Registry itself."
The words fell like a gavel strike.
From deep inside the chamber, a hundred spectral forms began to flicker into view — former clerks, overseers, and record-spirits bound to the archives. Their robes were tattered, their eyes like ink bleeding from forgotten scrolls. At their center stood Lord Bureaucrat Xian, no longer the commanding official they once knew, but a hollowed-out echo of his former self.
> "Ne Job," Xian's voice was calm, yet fractured, like glass under pressure. "You stand before the sacred ledger. No one, not even the gods, questions the flow of divine paperwork."
> "That's the problem," Ne Job shot back. "Everyone files, stamps, and approves — but no one questions."
He stepped forward, each footstep igniting a glyph of light across the marble floor. The audit glyphs responded to him — not as an intern, but as a recognized entity of correction.
Yue followed close, her fingers glowing with her personal seal, ready to record. "For record: Audit initiated under Clause 404 — 'Divine Systemic Error.'"
> "Clause 404?" Xian frowned. "That section was sealed centuries ago."
> "Exactly," Yue said, her voice steadying. "You sealed it when someone noticed the Heavenly Loop Error."
A ripple of unease spread among the specters.
Ne Job raised a document — the one he'd pieced together from fragments of the Eternal Case Files. The truth was written in collapsing ink: entire reincarnation records had been duplicated, altered, or erased to hide the inefficiencies of Heaven's management system. Souls looped through broken cycles to cover divine errors.
> "You used mortals as patches," Ne Job said. "Every form, every reincarnation, every forgotten god buried in paperwork — all to hide your backlog."
Xian's calm mask cracked. "You think you understand how Heaven runs?"
> "No," Ne Job replied. "But I understand what happens when a system stops caring who it serves."
Thunder rumbled above — not from clouds, but from the bureau itself. The ledgers began to burn from the edges inward, as if rejecting the exposure of truth.
Yue slammed her palm against the nearest desk, activating a Manual Override Seal. "Audit crosslink confirmed. No data can be deleted while investigation is active!"
The spirits shrieked. Records fluttered like panicked birds.
Ne Job marched to the main terminal — a vast crystalline slab covered in runes that represented all divine ledgers past and future. He reached out his hand.
> "By the authority of the Heavenly Internship Department…"
> "Don't you dare!" Xian's roar shattered several ledgers into dust.
> "…and by the will of every soul lost in your system…"
The glyphs flared. Ne Job's seal merged with the divine registry. For a brief moment, he saw everything — the loops, the broken fates, the hidden memos that shaped eternity.
And then he rewrote one line.
> "No soul shall be forgotten in backlog."
The chamber exploded with light. The divine system screamed, and somewhere, the gears of Heaven began to slow… and then align.
When the light faded, Ne Job fell to one knee. His badge was gone — replaced by a single golden seal glowing faintly on his wrist:
"Auditor of Eternity."
Yue caught him as he slumped. "You actually did it…"
He managed a tired grin. "Guess the paperwork finally caught up to Heaven."
Above them, the sky itself — for the first time since the Bureau's founding — began to rain golden pages, as the system rebooted.