Chapter 165 — "Orientation: The Welcome Packet"
Ne Job hung.
Literally.
Chains of red tape threaded through his wrists, his shoulders, his spine. Each strip split into long ribbons that looped through unseen anchors in the void. His body spun slowly, weightless, like a document being rotated for scanning.
He didn't scream.
He was past screaming.
Instead, his voice came out as a croak:
"Why…"
A soft chime pinged somewhere above him.
A printer.
Not a cosmic blast.
Not a celestial mechanism.
Just the lazy whine of a cheap office printer that no universe ever bothered to upgrade.
A projector flicked on.
A rectangle of sterile light hit him in the face.
He was ninety percent sure he was seeing a PowerPoint.
---
Slide 1 — Welcome to Onboarding Phase Two
> "We are delighted to have you join our metaphysical development track."
"Please relax your organs during this process."
The Clerk God's voice echoed from behind him.
"Breathe normally."
Ne Job tried.
Pain shot through his ribs like they were stapled together. Ink pooled in his lungs. Breathing felt like inhaling the mistakes of everyone who had ever failed before him.
He wheezed, "This…I didn't ask to—"
The Clerk God stepped into the projector light.
He wore no cosmic robes now.
No living scrolls, no wings of equations.
Just a button-down shirt, slightly wrinkled.
Black slacks.
Shoes that squeaked like they came from a discount chain.
His ID badge read simply:
CLERK
Beneath it, a barcode that pulsed with the same cadence as Ne Job's slowing heartbeat.
"You didn't need to ask," he said. "You signed."
---
Ne Job thrashed against the tape. It didn't budge.
Every movement only generated more red tape, weaving around his limbs like a spider knitting a web.
The Clerk God pointed at the projector.
"Slide two."
The room obeyed.
---
Slide 2 — Role Expectations
Bullet points rolled out.
You are a Probationary Auditor.
You are not paid.
You will never be paid.
All liabilities resulting from enforcement are incurred solely by you.
Violating this clause constitutes self-termination.
Violations of self-termination constitute escalated liability.
Ne Job coughed, voice cracking.
"What does that even—"
The Clerk God raised one hand.
The text expanded.
Liability refers to every person you have ever cared about, will care about, or could hypothetically care about in the future.
The projector flickered, highlighting the word:
CARE.
Ne Job sucked in air.
"I'll never join you."
The Clerk God shrugged.
"You already did."
---
The Office
The void brightened.
Cubicles booted into being, one by one, across infinity. Desks far older than galaxies stacked above and around him, forming vertical grids of bureaucracy.
Some were shaped from marble. Others from pressed documents. A few blinked with ghostly blue flames, like someone set paperwork on fire and the fire refused to die.
A thousand screens showed a thousand tragedies:
Dictators signing wars into existence.
Angels returning rejected prayer requests.
Cephalopods suing each other for territorial breach.
A star filing overtime forms to keep burning.
A cosmic serpent appealing a tax decision.
Every screen had the same watermark:
VEIN AUTHORITY — INTERNAL USE ONLY
Ne Job stared.
He wanted to blink.
He wanted to vomit.
He wanted to be anywhere but here.
Instead the Clerk God gestured to the cubicles.
"This is your division."
---
YUE
The universe snapped at her like a mousetrap.
For a second she stood on solid ground — Arden beside her, gasping. Then the floor vanished, and she stumbled forward into a cubicle maze.
Each corridor hummed with fluorescent light.
The air was too cold.
It smelled of toner and exhaustion.
Yue staggered, clutching her lungs, trying to breathe.
Arden wheezed next to her, gripping her sword.
"This is Hell," Arden said.
"No," Yue whispered.
"This is administration."
They turned the corner.
A receptionist sat behind a carved desk of obsidian charcoal. Their head was a folder. Literally — a manila folder folded in half, the paper warped into angular expressions, eyes drawn in black ink.
"Name?" the folder-being asked.
Yue swallowed. "I'm—"
The receptionist interrupted.
"Full legal name please. Date of issue. Birth record. Endorsements. Internship sponsor ID."
Arden slammed her fist on the desk.
Sparks of white shredded the form-being's sleeve.
"I am Arden of the Thousandfold Guard—"
The folder-being scribbled something.
"Marvelous. Threat identifier: minor. Please wait in Queue 4."
A portal opened beneath Arden.
She vanished.
"ARDEN!" Yue screamed.
The receptionist clasped their folder-hands together.
"Your companion has been rerouted to Orientation B. Don't worry, most subjects survive the first three reevaluations."
Yue went pale.
"I'm not an employee— I'm not anything— I'm—"
"Incorrect," the receptionist chirped. "You are a variable in Intern 0000-NE's operational portfolio."
A file dropped from the ceiling like a guillotine.
Yue barely stepped aside.
A tag glowed on the folder:
COLLATERAL
Her throat tightened.
She ran.
No alarms sounded.
No guards pursued.
Only the fluorescent lights flickered above her like indifferent eyes.
---
NE JOB
The Welcome Packet materialized in front of him.
Not paper.
A living book — bound with veins of pulsing black ink. Its cover read:
"Promotion Guide — Auditor Class (Starter Level)."
It opened itself.
A page grew teeth.
Ne Job recoiled. "NOPE—"
The Clerk God didn't even look.
The book lunged like a trained predator and bit into Ne's shoulder.
He screamed.
Ink spilled from his flesh as code-like runes carved themselves into his collarbone. His status updated in the air:
AUDITOR (PROBATIONARY).
He grasped at the wound, shaking, breath dissolving into glyphs.
"Take it back."
The Clerk God blinked.
"You misunderstand the direction of cause and effect. The system takes. You merely survive."
He tapped a pen against Ne's forehead.
The red tape chains shifted.
They didn't restrain him.
They organized him like a file.
The Clerk God pulled up a chair from nowhere — cheap gray plastic — and sat like a bored lecturer.
"Let us continue."
---
Slide 3 — Tools of Enforcement
The projector beeped.
A bullet list appeared:
Audit Spear
Compliance Glyph
Void Stamp (Single Use)
Termination Pen (Classified)
Ne Job gripped the red tape, trying to tear it.
His voice cracked. "I don't want tools. I don't want this job."
The Clerk God nodded sympathetically.
"Neither did I."
For a moment — one heartbeat — he sounded genuinely tired.
Ne Job froze.
The Clerk God looked away, eyes glazed.
"We don't get the jobs we deserve, Intern. We get the jobs that require someone to suffer."
The projector advanced itself.
---
Slide 4 — Performance Targets
PER CYCLE:
25 Audits (Standard)
10 Reconciliations (Minor)
1 Erasure (Conditional)
Ne Job's stomach churned.
"What's an Erasure?"
The Clerk God didn't answer.
The projector did.
His own face appeared on the slide.
Not as a person.
As a case.
CASE FILE 0000-NE: PRIORITY ERASURE.
Ne Job went cold.
"That's— That's my file."
"It is now your responsibility," the Clerk God said.
"To erase yourself before your value destabilizes the system."
---
Ne Job stopped breathing.
No panic.
Just the absolute vacuum of shock.
He whispered, "You want me to kill myself."
The Clerk God tilted his head.
"I want you to follow policy."
---
YUE — DEEPER INTO THE MAZE
She sprinted between cubicles.
Each one showed glimpses of horrors:
A demon sobbing because someone lost Form 32-B.
A celestial employee stapling galaxies together.
A mermaid stamping overtime requests with her own blood.
Every corridor was the same length.
Every turn felt like a loop.
A glowing kiosk sat in the intersection.
"MENTAL HEALTH SUPPORT — PRESS FOR EMPATHY."
She slammed the button.
A printer coughed.
A single sheet slid out.
> "PLEASE STOP FEELING THAT WAY."
Yue tore it in half.
The paper screamed.
---
A door appeared in front of her.
Glass.
Stark.
Corporate.
ONBOARDING OBSERVATION ROOM 2
She pushed through.
A balcony overlooked the infinite office.
Below—
Ne Job hung in chains.
A projector glowed in front of him.
A god in business-casual lectured him like an intern who spilled coffee on the wrong machine.
Yue choked.
"Ne…"
He didn't hear her.
His head was bowed.
Ink dripped from his jaw.
He looked like someone who was being erased from the inside.
The Clerk God snapped a finger.
---
Orientation Module — Practical
The chains released.
Ne Job dropped like dead weight, landing on his knees.
He gasped.
The Clerk God tossed something at his feet.
A single pen.
But its nib was a blade.
"Audit an easy target," the Clerk God said. "Begin with something you can stomach."
Ne Job picked it up, trembling.
He looked around.
Across the office floor…
Someone cried out.
A tiny figure hunched at a desk, arms shaking.
A creature of feathers and flame.
A phoenix clerk.
Filing resurrection forms.
Ne Job's vision blurred.
"No."
The Clerk God's voice turned firm.
"Protocols are clear. Protect the system. Audit inefficiencies. Remove burdens."
Ne Job gripped the blade-pen.
His heart pounded.
"No."
The god didn't blink.
"You do the job—"
He snapped his fingers.
"—or someone you love does."
A sick deja vu filled Ne Job's veins.
He heard her voice:
"Ne—"
He turned.
Yue stood above him in the observation window.
Eyes wide.
Hands shaking.
Terrified.
The Clerk God smirked.
"Welcome to management."
Ne Job screamed.
Ink exploded from him—
And the auditorium of infinity went black.
---
End Chapter 165