The Forgotten Archives groaned like an old beast, its corridors lined with cabinets that hadn't been opened since the dawn of bureaucracy itself. Dust floated through the air like suspended time, glittering faintly in the light of floating sigils that burned low and tired. Every file here was unwanted—obsolete decrees, ancient complaint slips, denied prayers, celestial forms that had lost their purpose centuries ago.
Ne Job sneezed.
"Achoo! Seriously, do gods not believe in janitors?"
Yue glared at him over a stack of yellowed scrolls. Her hair was tied up high, sleeves rolled, and the faintest twitch of her eyebrow said she was one sneeze away from committing divine homicide.
"Focus, Ne Job. We're not here to redecorate—we're here to find the trace of whoever rewrote the protocols."
"But these forms are older than my grandma's reincarnation cycle!" he said, holding up a moldy parchment labeled Form 1087-B: Divine Beverage Temperature Complaints. "Look! Someone actually complained that celestial tea was too lukewarm."
"That's Lord Xian's handwriting," Yue muttered absently, flipping through her own stack.
Ne Job's eyes widened. "Wait, he complained about tea? I thought he was too serious for that."
"Serious people are often the most petty."
Their voices echoed off the cavernous shelves. Somewhere deeper in the darkness, something shifted—a sound like a sigh, low and heavy. Both froze.
Yue slowly turned her head. "...You heard that too, right?"
Ne Job nodded, eyes wide. "Please tell me that was just the sound of bureaucracy dying."
Then came a whisper. Ancient, layered, like a hundred clerks murmuring through walls of time.
"My records… My records are wrong…"
The air grew colder. Scrolls fluttered on their own. Seals snapped open without touch. The entire aisle trembled as faint blue light traced the edges of the floor in sigil patterns older than language.
Yue stiffened. "Ne Job. Back away. Slowly."
"Too late," he said weakly, staring as an enormous silhouette formed in the light—towering, robed in ink and parchment, its face hidden beneath layers of stamped documents. Its voice vibrated like thunder muffled by paperwork.
"You meddle in what was meant to be forgotten…"
Yue immediately knelt. "Great One—Forgotten God of Paperwork—we did not come to disturb. We seek truth."
Ne Job blinked. "Wait—this is the guy who invented filing systems?"
The god turned its gaze toward him. The sound of quills scratching filled the air. Every cabinet shuddered as if trying to bow.
"Intern of Chaos… You again…"
"Eh—wait, again? We've met before?"
Yue shot him a horrified look. "You WHAT?"
The Forgotten God's voice rolled through the room like collapsing shelves.
"You… altered the Records of Karma…"
Ne Job paled. "Oh, that! Look, that was one time, and the form was confusing!"
Yue's eyes widened. "You edited karma paperwork?!"
"It said 'Request for Adjustment,' I thought it was like—editing a spreadsheet!"
The god's hands unfolded, each finger a quill dripping glowing ink.
"By doing so… you created a loop. A cycle that devours itself. The Bureau's balance now trembles on your signature."
Yue's voice shook. "Then tell us—how do we fix it?"
The god's shadow bent low.
"There is no fixing. Only rewriting."
For a moment, the silence pressed heavy. The air itself seemed to thicken with dread.
Then Ne Job, against all common sense, said brightly, "Okay! Then let's rewrite it back!"
Yue turned so slowly her neck creaked. "Ne Job. Do not—"
Too late.
He had already grabbed a floating quill. "Look, I just have to sign 'Approved' and it'll revert, right?"
The Forgotten God screamed—no, howled—like collapsing temples.
"FOOL!"
Light exploded from the quill, ripping across the room like lightning. Scrolls ignited with blue fire. The sigils on the floor twisted, consuming themselves into spirals.
Yue was thrown backward into a cabinet, paper fluttering around her like feathers. "NE JOB!" she shouted, but the intern was at the center of the storm, glowing glyphs spinning around him like orbiting contracts.
Ne Job blinked as the ink ran up his arms.
"Uh-oh."
"DROP IT!"
"I can't! It's signing itself!"
The quill jerked his hand downward—onto an open decree glowing faintly red. Form X-Ω: Termination of Protocol: Existence (Draft)
The instant the tip touched parchment, the entire archive screamed. Every shelf, every paper, every forgotten rule woke up and cried out in a thousand dead voices. The god's form flickered violently, unraveling like wet ink.
"You have signed… the Unsigned Form…"
Yue sprinted forward, grabbing Ne Job's wrist, but too late—ink burst outward like a wave, splattering across every document in sight. The Bureau's ancient script began to rewrite itself. Forms duplicated, names vanished, records looped endlessly.
Yue's vision blurred from the light. She clung to Ne Job as the god's voice echoed—weak but clear—
"Remember this, Assistant Yue… The Bureau was never meant to exist. It was born from a mistake… and now the mistake remembers itself."
The light died. Silence returned.
When Yue's eyes finally adjusted, the archives were still. Dust floated down. The god was gone—its towering figure replaced by a single, burned fragment of parchment on the floor.
She staggered forward and picked it up. A single phrase was scrawled across it in fresh ink:
> "Protocol X resumed. Audit begins anew."
Behind her, Ne Job groaned weakly. "Ugh… I think I accidentally promoted myself…"
Yue turned slowly. "You may have just restarted the end of the Bureau."
He blinked. "That sounds bad."
"It's worse than bad." She looked up at the shelves as a faint ticking sound echoed—like a thousand clocks starting in unison. "It means the Bureau's rewriting its own rules."
"On the bright side," Ne Job said, forcing a grin, "at least we found a lead!"
Yue exhaled through gritted teeth. "Ne Job…"
"Yes?"
"If we survive this, I'm filing for divine hazard pay."
Then—somewhere far above—the entire building shuddered. The lights flickered. Faint voices from the Bureau's upper floors began to scream.
Ne Job looked up. "Uh… Yue?"
She turned, face pale. "It's already begun."
The chapter ended with the sound of a gong echoing through heaven's bureaucratic halls—signaling the start of a new Audit Cycle.
And in the silence that followed, a faint, half-amused whisper lingered in Ne Job's ear:
> "Intern… you've signed your destiny."