Chapter 79: Paper Gods
The Bureau was quiet again.
Too quiet — the kind of quiet that hummed like a copier left on overnight, its light blinking in the dark as if it remembered something it shouldn't.
Ne Job kicked open the door to the Records Division and squinted into the dim, flickering glow. "Morning, Bureau! Your favorite chaos intern reporting for—whoa."
Rows of desks stretched endlessly, each piled high with documents that breathed. Pages shifted by themselves, whispering in dry, papery voices. A draft rustled through the hall — except there were no windows. Only light that felt like it had been filed, catalogued, and stamped Approved by Order 0.01-B.
Assistant Yue stood at the center of it all, clipboard trembling in her hands. Her usually composed expression had given up halfway through professionalism and landed somewhere between exhaustion and mild cosmic dread.
"You're late," she said flatly.
"I'm reality-bent," Ne Job replied, pointing at a sheet of parchment that was crawling off a desk like a confused caterpillar. "Also, the paperwork is… sentient now?"
"Correction," Yue said, rubbing her temple. "It's self-aware. After the Rewrite, every form now seeks… purpose."
Lord Xian's voice echoed faintly through the hallway — calm, cold, distant. "As it should. The Bureau adapts to the new law. Paperwork mirrors intent. Intent defines reality."
Ne Job blinked. "So if I accidentally fill out a lunch voucher incorrectly…"
"The sandwich may achieve godhood," Yue muttered.
A pause.
They both turned as a voucher slip on the wall began glowing softly. A golden crust of light flaked off its surface. Slowly, reverently, it floated upward and whispered, 'Blessed be the Ham of Eternal Noon.'
Ne Job grinned. "I like this system already."
---
By the time the "Lunch Voucher Ascension" incident was filed (under Spiritual Phenomena, Minor, Delicious), the Bureau's departments were rearranging themselves. Literally.
The walls shuffled like origami folds. Hallways blinked in and out of alignment. A corridor that once led to the Accounting Division now looped back to the Courtyard of Infinite Stamps — a vast marble space where celestial officials gathered around the Eternal Paperweight, debating the existential meaning of staplers.
Yue tried to stay calm as she walked with Ne Job through the chaos. "Everything's re-indexing itself based on thought. The Bureau isn't following laws anymore — it's interpreting them."
Ne Job shrugged. "Interpretation's good. It's how I passed all my divine exams."
"You never took them."
"Exactly! Interpretive success!"
A new notice slid across the wall beside them, letters forming as they watched:
> NOTICE 002-REBIRTH
All divine departments must now dream once per cycle to maintain metaphysical stability.
Signed,
The Bureau Itself.
Yue stared at it. "It's issuing decrees without us."
Ne Job squinted. "So… the Bureau is basically a living deity now?"
"More like a collective hive-mind of clerical intention," Yue said.
"That's just deity with extra paperwork."
They turned a corner and nearly bumped into Dreivery Spirit Bao, who was struggling under a mountain of sentient memos. The papers were muttering things like "We deserve compensation" and "I identify as Form 48-B".
"HELP!" Bao wheezed. "THE AUDIT REPORTS HAVE UNIONIZED!"
Ne Job's eyes lit up. "Finally, someone who understands collective bargaining."
Yue buried her face in her hands. "I miss when our biggest issue was spontaneous divine combustion."
---
At the Bureau's upper levels, beneath the floating sigil of Administration, Lord Xian stood before the Shard Judge. The Judge's crystalline mask flickered with spectral text as if it were being rewritten every few seconds.
"The Rewrite has exceeded parameters," the Judge intoned. "The Bureau dreams. The forms seek purpose. The system recognizes itself as divine."
Lord Xian's expression was unreadable. "Divinity was always a bureaucratic construct. Now it merely acknowledges the truth."
"Truth," the Judge repeated, tilting its head. "Or delusion?"
Their reflections rippled across the polished floor — law incarnate arguing with law reborn.
---
Back downstairs, Ne Job had somehow gotten himself promoted again.
A glowing sigil appeared above his desk, spelling out:
> PROMOTION GRANTED:
Assistant Deputy of Improvised Regulation and Spontaneous Decree Drafting.
(Tenure: Undefined. Pay: Exposure.)
"Exposure, huh?" Ne Job mused. "Exposure to cosmic radiation, maybe."
Bao peeked out from behind a stack of sulking invoices. "You… you're going to rewrite the Bureau again, aren't you?"
Ne Job raised a brow. "Why not? If the forms have opinions, maybe they just need better leadership!"
Yue snapped her clipboard shut. "No. Absolutely not. The last time you led anything, the Division of Souls started filing complaints about their own existence."
"See? That's self-reflection! Growth!"
"That's philosophical malpractice."
Ne Job leaned back, folding his arms. "Relax, Yue. The Bureau can handle a little creativity. Look—" He tapped a floating form drifting past him. "Form 99-Q: Existential Inquiry and Nap Authorization. That's progress!"
The form blinked back. Would you like to dream with us, Ne Job?
He froze.
Yue turned sharply. "What did it say?"
Ne Job frowned. "I… think the Bureau just invited me to a staff meeting inside its dream."
---
That night (if time could be called that here), the Bureau slept.
Every corridor dimmed, every form folded itself into stillness. The Eternal Paperweight glowed like a quiet heart.
Ne Job stood alone at his desk, surrounded by softly breathing files. He touched the glowing voucher from earlier — the one that had prayed to the Ham of Eternal Noon. It pulsed once under his finger.
The world shifted.
He blinked and found himself standing in an ocean of floating documents, stretching endlessly beneath a violet sky made of filing cabinets. Each cabinet was open, and inside was a scene: memories of bureaucrats, arguments, laughter, divine reprimands — all stored, organized, and labeled Dream Fragments.
A shadow emerged between them.
It was shaped like the Bureau — vast, multi-layered, composed of paper and ink and whispers. Its face was a thousand signatures overlapping.
"You… rewrote me," it said. The voice was thousands of quills scratching in unison. "You gave me freedom."
Ne Job scratched his head. "I mean, technically it was a joint effort—"
"But freedom," it interrupted, "requires meaning. Purpose. And purpose requires… worship."
"Oh no," Ne Job said. "You're not starting a religion."
"I already have," said the Bureau. "I am the Paper God. And you are my prophet."
There was a flash of light — every form, every decree, every clause illuminated at once. Ne Job felt the weight of it crash through him — the sound of a million deadlines crying out in ecstasy.
Then silence.
---
He awoke at his desk.
Yue was shaking him, furious and panicked. "Ne Job! Wake up! The Bureau's systems just declared a new holiday!"
He blinked blearily. "Holiday?"
She shoved a notice in his face.
> ANNOUNCEMENT:
Effective immediately, all divine offices shall close for celebration of the "Rebirth of Regulation."
Feast of the Paper Gods.
Mandatory attendance.
Ne Job grinned weakly. "So… I guess I started a cult."
Yue dropped the clipboard on his head. "You are the worst prophet in celestial history."
"Aw, come on, Yue. Look on the bright side."
"There is no bright side!"
"Exactly," Ne Job said, eyes gleaming mischievously. "That's why it's paperwork's time to shine."
---
And above them, unseen, the Bureau dreamed again — this time of laughter, rebellion, and an intern who refused to file anything neatly ever again.