Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 126: "Post-Reboot Orientation"
The light faded gradually this time. No crash. No thunderous decree. Just a calm flicker, like a fluorescent bulb warming back to life.
Ne Job blinked.
He was standing in an office again. Not the old Bureau—not divine marble halls or labyrinthine archives—but a clean, open-plan workspace. Soft lighting. Holographic terminals hovering over minimalist desks. A coffee machine hummed somewhere in the back, producing the gentle hiss of espresso salvation.
On the wall, a new logo glowed faintly:
> THE BUREAU — VERSION 2.0
Now With Fewer Existential Errors!
Ne Job stretched his shoulders. "Well," he muttered, "that's one way to reinstall Heaven."
Yue appeared beside him, brushing off glowing dust from her sleeves. Her uniform had updated itself—half celestial robe, half office blazer. She eyed the holographic interface before her, expression caught between awe and disbelief.
"Did you… just turn the afterlife into a start-up?"
Ne Job smiled. "Not a start-up. A beta test."
Bao zipped past in a panic, clutching a tray of steaming teacups. "Sir! The break room refrigerator is sentient now! It keeps demanding performance reviews!"
"Good," said Ne Job. "Means it's learning workplace accountability."
The little spirit wailed and flew off toward HR, muttering prayers to the Coffee Deity.
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ne Job, I'm serious. The Bureau is… different. The structure's running smoother, but it's evolving on its own. The forms rewrite themselves. Case files categorize by emotional tone. There's a—" she paused, staring at a terminal, "—karaoke folder labeled 'Motivational Soundtracks of Rebirth.'"
Ne Job raised an eyebrow. "Is my voice on it?"
She scrolled. "…Unfortunately, yes."
He grinned. "Good. Leave it."
Before Yue could retort, the main intercom crackled alive. A bright, polished voice echoed through the office—eerily cheerful, like a corporate AI that had seen too much.
> "Good morning, Bureau employees! Welcome to Post-Reboot Orientation. Please remember: divinity is a shared responsibility! Lunch break is eternal, but only if you clock out responsibly!"
A dozen spirits clapped uncertainly. One of them, a ghost still half-transparent, asked, "Excuse me, do interns still get smited for incompetence?"
Ne Job pointed finger-guns at him. "Only on Thursdays."
Laughter spread through the floor—real, spontaneous laughter, the first this place had heard in centuries.
For a brief moment, Yue allowed herself a small smile. "You did it, you know," she said quietly. "You broke the cycle. No gods. No decree. Just… people learning to be better."
Ne Job leaned against a glowing desk, watching as the spirits began to adjust—filling out forms, chatting, laughing, helping one another. "We didn't rebuild Heaven," he said. "We rebooted purpose."
Then the ceiling flickered.
A low hum rippled through the air. The lights dimmed for just an instant—long enough to remind them the new system was still alive, still learning.
Yue's expression tightened. "What now?"
Before he could answer, the holographic wall split open, forming a live transmission window.
Lord Xian's image appeared, distorted but stable. His new form resembled something between a program and a deity—a living network of light shaped into a calm, composed face.
> "Directive 2.0 detected. Synchronization ongoing. The Bureau's reach now extends across both mortal and divine strata."
Ne Job tilted his head. "So… we're online?"
> "Yes. But anomalies persist."
He gestured, and several case files appeared midair—glitching, stuttering, pulsing with residual static.
> "Unresolved entities. Fragments left over from the old Directive. They do not fit the new parameters."
Yue frowned. "You mean… ghosts of the old system?"
> "In essence. Misfiled gods, half-born decrees, and forbidden contracts. They are drawn to the Spark's energy."
Bao poked his head from behind a desk. "Sir, I humbly recommend not touching the glowing anomalies that scream in binary!"
Ne Job sighed. "So much for a peaceful morning."
Yue turned toward him. "You're going after them, aren't you?"
He shrugged, tightening his tie. "Can't leave unfinished paperwork lying around. It's bad karma and bad management."
Yue stared, then gave a resigned sigh. "You're impossible."
"Correction," he said with a grin, "I'm employed."
He turned to the rest of the office, raising his voice. "Alright, everyone! New directive—field operations are back. We're cleaning up divine debris. If it glows, glitches, or growls 'access denied,' tag it, file it, and call me."
A wave of nervous murmurs rippled through the spirits. Someone saluted. Someone else asked where to download courage.
Ne Job winked. "Don't worry. I've got a foolproof system this time."
Yue arched an eyebrow. "Really?"
He held up a small, flashing tablet. Across the screen, a single sticky note blinked in bright red text:
> "TODO: Make a System That Doesn't Explode."
Yue sighed. "We're doomed."
Ne Job laughed, tossing the tablet in the air and catching it. "Nah. We're alive."
The lights flared again—bright, warm, and alive.
Outside the new Bureau's glass walls, an infinite skyline stretched across planes of light and cloud. The reborn world pulsed with rhythm—half divine, half digital, entirely absurd.
And somewhere deep below, unseen and unregistered, one of the unresolved anomalies opened its eyes.
Its whisper echoed faintly through the data streams:
> "The Bureau rewrites… but I remember the old laws."
A shiver ran through the circuits.
Ne Job glanced upward, sensing the shift. For just a second, the playful smile faded, replaced by quiet focus.
Then he cracked his knuckles. "Looks like overtime's back."