Ne Job — Chapter 166: "The Desk of 10,000 Years"
Arc: Vein That Should Not Sing
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1. In the Vault of Forgotten Work
The Bureau was a maze again.
Not physically—Ne Job had learned to navigate the cubicle labyrinth with the instincts of a cornered raccoon—but spiritually. The walls of Bureaucrat Xian's headquarters weren't made of drywall or glass anymore. They were made of paperwork.
Sheets rippled like water. Forms fluttered like moths. Memos whispered to themselves in shredded voices.
Every step Yue took with him, the floor rewrote itself—corridor names struck through, reassigned, stamped URGENT with red ink that pulsed like blood.
"Don't look down," Yue muttered.
Ne Job looked down instantly.
The carpet stretched away, turning into an endless strip of pending tasks, each box unchecked, each deadline past due, each line item screaming with red neon.
He swallowed.
"…I wasn't ready for this."
Yue squeezed his sleeve. "No one ever is."
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2. The Desk
At the end of a corridor that shouldn't have existed was a door.
It was small. Too small. Child-sized.
A brass handle, worn smooth. A plaque: DO NOT ENTER (YOU ALREADY KNOW WHY).
Ne Job lifted his hand.
The door opened without being touched.
Inside was a room.
Not a grand throne chamber. Not a warehouse of paperwork. Not a battlefield.
Just a room.
Dust motes drifted in the air. A single lamp hummed overhead. And in the center stood a desk.
A normal, wooden office desk.
Only—Ne Job could feel it before he could breathe it—
the desk was older than gods.
Yue's voice shook.
"This is the Desk of 10,000 Years."
Ne Job blinked. "It looks… kinda cheap."
"That's exactly why it hurts people," Yue replied. "Nobody suspects a desk."
He reached for the surface.
Yue slapped his hand away.
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3. The Desk Speaks
Something moved behind the desk.
A shadow. A ripple. A clerk in robes older than civilization.
His fingers were long and ink-stained, his eyes rimmed by exhaustion. His hair was a knot of bureaucracy, tied with red tape. A ghostly nametag floated on his chest.
FORGOTTEN GOD OF PAPERWORK.
"He returns," the god croaked, voice dry as parchment. "The intern who destroyed my filing system."
Ne Job's mouth opened. "That was an accident! The hallway exploded!"
The god raised a hand. A thousand pages fluttered around it.
"Do you know how long it takes to re-align a filing cabinet full of divine receipts?"
Yue whispered to Ne Job: "Don't say '15 minutes', don't say '15 minutes', don't—"
"Like… fifteen min—"
The desk slammed downward, shaking like an earthquake.
Pages burst into dust.
The Forgotten God's eye twitched.
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4. The Offer
"You stand before the Desk of 10,000 Years," the god hissed.
"It has consumed kings, demigods, and tax auditors.
Its surface is where destinies are processed and lost."
He gestured.
A chair rolled up behind Ne Job.
A stack of forms slid gently onto the desk.
A pen materialized in his right hand.
"You want to save the Vein?" the god said. "You want to silence the song? Then stamp these."
Ne Job stared.
"They're… internship feedback forms."
"Yes."
"For interns who… died?"
"Yes."
"I'm not HR—"
"That's exactly why you are perfect."
Ne Job felt everything inside him collapse into a black hole.
Yue squeezed his shoulder.
"You can do this. Just don't read the comments."
He read one.
> Intern #4083 — 'He breathed too loud.'
The desk rumbled, feeding him more.
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5. Deadlines Are Divine
The Forgotten God leaned over the desk, whispering like a curse:
"Every god writes.
Every mortal submits.
But only the intern stamps the fate."
Ne Job stamped the first form.
A thunderclap shook the room.
A distant shriek echoed through Bureau reality.
The god's eyes widened.
"You are faster than I expected."
Ne Job stamped the second.
The papers twitched like living skin.
Pages folded into origami birds and flew away through cracks in the ceiling.
The god trembled.
"He is… efficient."
Yue looked horrified. "I don't think that's a compliment."
Ne Job stamped the third.
The Desk of 10,000 Years shuddered, the wood rippling like liquid as something ancient woke beneath it.
A sound—like the Fourth Vein starting to hum—rolled through the Bureau.
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6. The Desk Remembers
Paper avalanched across the desk, burying Ne Job to the shoulders. His fingers stamped blindly, unconscious muscle memory of an intern pushed too far.
Stamping in darkness. Stamping in panic. Stamping in spite.
The desk whispered:
> I remember a hero.
I remember a clerk.
I remember… you.
Ne Job gasped. "I've never been here before!"
The desk disagreed.
> You did this once,
In a life before paper.
You filed the destiny of cities.
You stamped the fate of stars.
Yue recoiled.
"That sounds like a nightmare."
Ne Job stamped another.
Paper peeled back, revealing a shape beneath the desk's surface—a ghostly imprint of Ne Job's own signature, burned into the wood like a brand.
He stopped breathing.
"…I've already signed this once."
The Forgotten God bowed his head.
"And you will sign again."
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7. The Dreaded Chair
A second chair scraped forward.
This one made of black lacquered wood—no wheels, no comfort, only obligation.
It turned toward Yue.
She froze.
"I— I'm not the intern."
"No," the god said softly.
"You are worse.
You are the witness."
The chair swallowed her lower body as if made of glue. She yelped, trying to stand, but the chair held fast—bureaucratic gravity.
Ne Job leapt up—
—and the desk grabbed his wrist.
Not physically. It used its true weapon:
Responsibility.
> There is still more work.
Pages spilled upward like a tidal wave.
The Forgotten God pointed at them.
"Stamp. Or the Vein will sing until the world breaks."
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8. The Intern Breaks First
Ne Job stamped.
And stamped.
And stamped.
Ink splashed like blood.
The signatures cut into his nerves like voltage.
Yue screamed his name from the chair of obligation, but her voice sounded far away, muffled by the buzzing of immortal paperwork.
The song of the Fourth Vein crept in again—bleeding into the room, into the desk, into the forms.
The desk answered the song with its own rhythm:
STAMP
STAMP
STAMP
Like a heartbeat.
Like a war drum.
Like the pulse of a dying universe begging for an intern to fix it.
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9. The Desk Wakes
The wood groaned.
The lamp shattered.
A fissure split across the surface of the desk, revealing a glowing spine made not of timber but of paperwork—ancient scrolls fused into bone.
The Forgotten God fell to his knees.
"It wakes…"
Ne Job dropped the stamp.
The desk rose.
No longer furniture—
but something alive.
Something that remembered every job ever done,
and every job yet to be.
It spoke in the language of memos:
> THE INTERN IS ACCEPTED.
BEGIN FINAL PROCESSING.
Ne Job could feel it reach into him, rifling through his future.
He screamed—
—and the desk stamped him back.
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To be continued…