Chapter 36: Lord Xian's Suspicion
(Arc 2: Audit from Heaven – Continuation of "Yue's Return to the Chaos Department")
The air inside Lord Bureaucrat Xian's chamber was cold enough to make angels sweat.
Assistant Yue stood at attention, posture immaculate, her clipboard pressed tightly against her chest. Ne Job slouched beside her, half conscious and half pretending to be dead. The golden stylus had been confiscated and sealed in seven layers of binding scripture — floating quietly inside a crystal case that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lord Xian sat behind his desk — though "desk" was a generous term for what looked like a small continent of stacked scrolls and quills. The enormous bureaucrat's robe shimmered with celestial symbols that rearranged themselves whenever he frowned, which was constant. His long white beard rested on a ledger the size of a tombstone.
He didn't look up when he spoke.
"Explain. Slowly."
Yue swallowed. "Yes, my lord. During a routine inspection of the Form Evolution wing, the intern appears to have accidentally—"
"Accidentally?" Xian's eyes finally rose, glowing like molten silver. "Do you know how many realms nearly collapsed under this so-called accident? The Division of Mortality reported that reality briefly tried to auto-correct death into 'permanent paid leave.' The karmic servers almost rebooted!"
Ne Job raised a shaky hand. "In my defense, that actually sounds kinda fair—"
"Silence."
The word struck like a gavel. The intern's mouth snapped shut involuntarily.
Yue cleared her throat delicately. "Lord Xian, the situation was contained. The REWRITE Protocol has been neutralized, and all material damages have been catalogued for correction."
Lord Xian leaned back in his towering chair. "Contained? Then why does the Divine Log still show active anomaly signatures?"
Yue's fingers stiffened slightly. "Residual code, my lord. The system is still cleansing itself."
He studied her for a long moment. The silence was sharp enough to carve words into air.
Then he turned his gaze toward Ne Job. "Intern. What precisely did you do?"
Ne Job gulped. "Uh, I… was verifying Form 77-X like a good intern. Then it started glowing, and I thought maybe it was an interactive form, so I poked it with my pen—"
Lord Xian's brow twitched. "You poked it."
"With supervision-level precision!" Ne Job offered weakly.
"Do you know," Xian said slowly, "how many centuries it took to seal that form? It was a prototype designed to rewrite divine law. Even gods are forbidden from touching it without unanimous council approval."
Ne Job smiled nervously. "Then I guess I'm… promoted?"
The temperature dropped by ten degrees.
Lord Xian's quill snapped itself in half.
"Promoted," he repeated. "The mortal world should thank me daily for forbidding executions."
Yue quickly stepped in before lightning manifested. "My lord, if I may — the intern's mistake was unintentional. However, the incident might offer… data."
"Data?"
"Yes," she said carefully. "The REWRITE Protocol identified Ne Job as an authorized user. That shouldn't be possible. His existence doesn't even have a permanent celestial ID yet."
That made Xian pause. For the first time, curiosity flickered behind his sharp glare. "Continue."
"The form recognized his essence," Yue said. "As if he were part of the original code. It's as though Heaven itself saw him as a built-in variable."
Xian's eyes narrowed. "Impossible."
"Perhaps. But the activation logs confirm it. No external override, no forced access. The system granted permission voluntarily."
Lord Xian rose from his seat. The room dimmed. Rows of floating reports rearranged themselves, circling him like orbiting moons. He extended one long finger, tracing a glowing sigil in the air — a projection of the REWRITE record.
On the floating page, golden letters shimmered.
> Access Granted: NE JOB
Authorization Level: Undefined / Prototype
Command: CONTINUE
The last word pulsed faintly — alive.
"'Continue,'" Xian murmured. "That's not an order. It's a directive. The Protocol is still running somewhere."
Yue stiffened. "I attempted a full seal—"
"I know you did, Assistant Yue," Xian said, not unkindly. "And you did well. But this is beyond containment. The form didn't just attach to the intern — it recognized him. That means there's a link between his origin and the system's foundation."
Ne Job blinked. "Wait, are you saying Heaven's operating system has me in its codebase?"
Xian's expression darkened. "I am saying you may not be as accidental as you appear."
Ne Job tilted his head. "That's… good? Bad? I feel like it's bad."
"Bad," Yue muttered.
"Extremely," Xian confirmed.
The bureaucrat paced around his desk, robes whispering like thunderclouds. "If the REWRITE sees him as a valid editor, it means the original architect might have used his spiritual signature — perhaps as a key, or a safeguard. Someone wanted a wildcard in the system."
Yue frowned. "But who would dare design something that volatile into Heaven's foundation?"
"Only a god with clearance beyond mine."
That sentence hung in the air. There were only a handful of beings with greater clearance than Lord Xian — and most of them hadn't been seen since the early creation protocols.
Ne Job, oblivious to the gravity of it all, raised his hand again. "Um, so… do I still have to fill out my weekly report?"
Lord Xian stared at him for three full seconds. "Yes. In triplicate. By hand."
Yue sighed in quiet sympathy.
But as they turned to leave, Lord Xian's gaze lingered on the sealed stylus floating in its case. Its golden light pulsed once — faint, almost like a heartbeat.
The bureaucrat muttered under his breath, "If the system chose him, then this isn't over."
He pressed a hidden rune under his desk, opening a private communication link. A shadow appeared in the air — a hooded celestial with glowing eyes.
"Prepare the Audit Squad," Xian ordered quietly. "And send word to the Shard Court. We may need to reopen the Prototype Records."
The shadow bowed and vanished.
Outside, as Yue half-dragged Ne Job down the hall, the intern whispered, "He didn't yell that much. I think he likes me now."
Yue didn't even look at him. "Ne Job, when a superior says 'prepare the Audit Squad,' that means they're debating whether to erase you or promote you to paperwork fuel."
"Oh."
He scratched his head. "So… fifty-fifty?"
"More like ninety-ten."
Behind them, a faint golden glow flickered under his sleeve — the incomplete REWRITE mark still alive, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat.
Unseen, it whispered its quiet command once more:
> CONTINUE.