Everyone told Yue the Bureau had a secret manual.
Nobody mentioned it was carnivorous.
It started with a whisper—soft, papery, like pages rubbing together. The kind of sound that belonged in a library, not in an underground vault beneath Administrative Sector 42.
A long staircase spiraled downward. Lanterns formed from expired policy documents shed a greenish glow, illuminating rules etched on the walls.
MANDATE: NO SHOELACES MANDATE: NO CAFFEINE AFTER 3:33 CELESTIAL TIME MANDATE: DO NOT SAY "PAPERJAM" OUT LOUD
Ne Job's voice echoed down the hallway: "So… we're sure this is safe?"
"No," Yue said flatly, descending another step. "But if we don't get that manual, the Judge will grind us into cosmic glue."
Princess Ling trailed behind them, holding a bat wrapped in divine ribbon. "I thought the secret manual was metaphorical. Like… a myth to scare interns."
"It is," Yue said. "Except the myth bites."
They reached the bottom.
A door made of laminated memos loomed. Rune-stamped, seven locks. The sigil on the center was struggling, like it desperately wanted to crawl away.
Bao, still woozy from his earlier fainting spell, drooped beside them. "I… I don't get it. Why would a manual need seven locks?"
Yue sighed. "Because one lock wasn't enough to stop idiots like—"
She glanced at Ne Job.
He blinked innocently.
"—you."
Princess Ling tapped her bat. "Okay. What's the plan?"
"We unlock it," Yue said, producing a crystalline key card.
"Just like that?"
"No," Yue muttered. "We unlock one lock and then survive whatever happens."
She inserted the key card.
CLICK.
Something wailed.
Not like a ghost—more like a printer running out of toner mid-report, sobbing in the dark.
Princess Ling flinched. "NOPE."
The second lock opened.
SCRAAAAAH.
A gust of musty air burst out, carrying the scent of wet parchment and overdue assignments.
The third lock opened.
THUD-THUD-THUD.
The door pulsed like a heartbeat.
Ne Job swallowed hard. "Hey, Yue… is it too late to bribe the Judge?"
"Yes."
"What about a fruit basket?"
The fourth lock released.
The walls vibrated.
The fifth lock—
BOOM.
The ground shook like a Titan accountant stamping a denial form.
Yue grabbed the door, bracing herself.
"Stay behind me, both of you. If the manual tries to latch onto your face, scream once for help, twice for exorcism."
Princess Ling blinked. "Why—"
The sixth lock opened.
—SHHK—
The seventh clicked on its own.
Then silence.
Yue slowly pushed the door open.
A massive archive chamber yawned before them.
Shelves rose like skyscrapers, made of bones and bamboo and misfiled gods. Stacks of rejected reports towered like mountains. Constellations of loose staples floated in the air, orbiting invisible gravity sources.
And in the center, something slept.
A tome, bound in leather made from forgotten treaties.
A spine stitched with immortal ink.
Pages sealed with sigil-wax and bureaucratic blood.
The Bureau's Secret Manual.
Four meters tall.
Two wide.
Breathing.
It inhaled like an ocean.
And exhaled in wheezes of shredded paper.
At its feet, a plaque:
BE NOT HASTY.
BE NOT FOOLISH.
BE NOT INTERN.
Ne Job raised a hand.
"I feel personally attacked."
Yue stalked forward, jaw tight. "Manual Spirit. Wake up."
The tome didn't move.
Yue cleared her throat and tried again—this time in the ancient dialect of Audit Clerks.
"Wake. Up. You moldy compost of regulations."
The tome vibrated.
Paper peeled apart like jaws.
A slit split across its cover, revealing an eye made of swirling ink.
It blinked.
A voice seeped through every crack in reality like a dissatisfied supervisor:
who. disturbs. my. retirement.
Ne Job raised his hand. "H–Hi! Intern Ne Jo—"
The tome shrieked.
INTERN.
A paper gale blasted from its spine.
Scrolls exploded from the shelves. File folders rained down like hail. Princess Ling swung her bat wildly, batting away possessed sticky notes.
Bao screamed as a invoice binder latched onto his ear.
Yue dodged a flying highlighter. "Manual Spirit! We need compliance guidance!"
The tome paused, then cackled.
compliance.
The paper cyclone intensified, swirling around Ne Job like a jury of unpaid overtime.
he is 98% noncompliant by design.
Pages flapped violently.
he. should. be. incinerated.
"That's what the Shard Court Judge said!" Princess Ling yelled.
the judge is correct. i hate agreeing with him.
Yue's patience snapped.
"Manual!" she shouted. "Trial period. Thirty days. Audit risk mitigation!"
That got the tome's attention.
It lowered.
trial?
"Yes!"
thirty days?
"Yes!"
and this is the aberration?
Yue shoved Ne Job forward.
"He's the aberration."
Ne Job's eyes were saucers. "I don't like this plan!"
The tome leaned in, its single ink-eye scanning him.
Long, slow, judging.
Ne Job trembled.
Princess Ling whispered, "It's going to swallow him like a job application."
Then, unexpectedly:
…there is potential.
Yue blinked. "What?"
Princess Ling nearly fell over. "WHAT?!"
Ne Job gasped. "I KNEW IT! I'm gifted!"
The tome hissed.
not gifted. defective.
but defects sometimes break systems.
systems must be broken before upgraded.
Ne Job beamed proudly. "That's basically praise."
Manual Spirit extended a tendril of crisp parchment.
It reached Ne Job's forehead.
He recoiled. "AHH—"
The tendril slapped him.
Hard.
Then wrapped around his wrist.
Sigils lit up like fever.
Yue recognized them.
The same kind Court auditors used to brand unregistered demigods.
Princess Ling backed away. "Is it… eating him?"
"Worse," Yue muttered. "It's formatting him."
Ne Job shuddered.
Visions flooded his mind—
He saw forms multiplying. Paperwork swirling into fractals. Cubicles folding like origami. Time sheets screaming. Divine seals chanting CITE YOUR SOURCES in eldritch harmony.
The manual's voice whispered in his skull:
you are raw chaos
you file without filing
you disrupt workflow
you cause clerical collapse
Ne Job whimpered.
you are perfect.
Then the tome plunged a quill into his hand.
Ink scalded him, searing through his veins like molten bureaucracy.
"Y U E—!!"
Yue lunged—but the tome swatted her away.
silence. intern must endure.
The quill glowed brighter, siphoning something invisible from Ne Job.
His karmic imbalance bled through the air as black mist.
Ne Job screamed.
The chamber shook.
The tome roared—like a dragon made of library fines.
I ACCEPT.
A surge of light erupted.
Ne Job collapsed.
The enormous manual snapped shut.
Silence.
Pages drifted down like snow.
Yue crawled to Ne Job's side, heart hammering.
He was breathing.
Barely.
Princess Ling knelt beside them. "He looks… different."
Yue blinked.
The ink on his wrist had changed shape.
A seal—crisp and perfectly stamped—gleamed beneath the brand Shard Court Judge left.
MANUAL COMPLIANCE: 0.01%
Princess Ling gasped. "He got a grade!"
"Apparently." Yue lifted Ne Job carefully. "We're starting from zero."
Ne Job groaned.
"Did I… did I… pass?"
Yue stared at him.
"You survived. That's the same thing."
The chamber rumbled.
Shelves shifted.
The tome spoke one last time, quieter now:
i will assist.
but if he fails…
i will eat him.
Yue gave a tired smile. "Get in line."
---
End of Chapter 178