Chapter 33: The REWRITE Incident
(Arc 2: Audit from Heaven – Continuation)
Ne Job had been left alone for exactly seven minutes.
That was all the universe needed to panic.
The Department of Form Evolution was eerily silent — an experimental wing buried under hundreds of floors of paperwork archives. Rows of glass tubes held semi-living forms that twitched, muttered, and occasionally stamped themselves out of boredom.
Ne Job was in charge of "low-risk document interaction." A task designed to keep him from breaking anything important.
Which, naturally, made him curious about everything important.
He leaned over a containment table. "Form ID... 77-X. 'Experimental Template: REWRITE Protocol.'"
The label shimmered with faint golden ink — the same hue Yue had seen earlier through the mirror.
"Huh," he said to himself. "Looks like one of those high-authority forms. Maybe if I just peek at it—"
The moment his pen tip touched the page, the world blinked.
A faint hum filled the room. The form unfolded by itself, pages spreading like wings. Lines of glowing script began spiraling upward, writing and erasing themselves in real time.
Ne Job blinked. "Uh-oh. That's... not standard formatting."
The air rippled. The entire lab began to edit itself.
A nearby sign that once read 'NO UNAUTHORIZED SPELLCASTING' changed to 'MANDATORY CHAOS ALLOWED.'
The filing cabinets started arguing about alphabetical order.
A tea kettle sprouted arms and saluted him.
Ne Job's jaw dropped. "Okay, either I'm hallucinating, or this is my most productive day ever."
He tried to back away — but the form followed him, glowing brighter.
Its letters twisted into a phrase written in divine tongue:
> REWRITE: User privileges elevated.
The pen in his hand melted into light, then reshaped itself into a golden stylus — the kind used by divine administrators, not interns.
Ne Job blinked. "Wait... does that mean I can—"
He pointed the stylus at a broken clock. It instantly repaired itself, then turned into a calendar.
He pointed it at the floor. The tiles rearranged into the word 'HELLO.'
Ne Job grinned. "Okay. Okay, this is fine. I'm just—uh—temporarily the god of paperwork reality."
Then the intercom crackled:
"ATTENTION. UNAUTHORIZED SYSTEM ALTERATION DETECTED.
ALL DEPARTMENTAL REALITY THREADS AT RISK OF CORRUPTION."
The lab lights flashed red. Containment glyphs shattered one by one.
Ne Job looked around helplessly as forms, pens, and folders came alive, chanting:
"Sign... sign... sign..."
"Ah," he said nervously. "This might be the part where I should run."
He sprinted toward the door — but the door vanished and reappeared on the ceiling.
Gravity promptly gave up.
Floating upside down, Ne Job groaned, "Yue's gonna kill me. If Heaven doesn't first."
And then, amid the chaos, the golden sigil reappeared above him — clear and deliberate this time.
It spelled out a new word:
> "CONTINUE."
The lab froze.
Every living form bowed.
And the stylus in Ne Job's hand began writing on its own.
He stared in horror as the words formed midair:
> "CHAPTER ONE: REWRITING HEAVEN."