📘 Ne Job: Intern to the Divine

Chapter 1: “Welcome to the Heavenly Bureau, Please Don’t Touch the Scrolls”

Ne Job’s first day at the Heavenly Bureau began with a crash. Not a metaphorical one—a literal, wing-flapping, scroll-scattering crash into the Department of Mortal Engagement’s filing cloud.

“Intern Ne Job,” boomed a voice from above, “you’ve knocked over the Karma Index.”

Ne Job blinked, tangled in a pile of glowing spreadsheets. “I thought it was a beanbag.”

A seraph floated down, clipboard in hand, halo flickering like a faulty LED. This was Seraphim-12, the Bureau’s most feared middle manager and the only celestial being who could weaponize passive-aggressive silence.

“You’re late,” Seraphim-12 said.

“I died five minutes ago,” Ne Job offered. “Technically, I’m early.”

“Excuses are for mortals. Sign here.”

The clipboard pulsed ominously. Ne Job signed. The pen screamed.

“Welcome to the Heavenly Bureau,” Seraphim-12 said. “You’re assigned to the Department of Mortal Engagement. Your job is to monitor, influence, and occasionally sabotage mortal creativity.”

Ne Job’s eyes sparkled. “So I get to mess with webnovels?”

“Gently. With memes.”

They were led past departments like “Dream Licensing,” “Reincarnation Logistics,” and “Unscheduled Miracles.” One hallway was just a loop labeled “Pending Approvals.” A cherub had been stuck there since 1453.

Ne Job’s desk was a floating slab of marble with a cursed typewriter, a coffee mug labeled “#BlessedButOverworked,” and a drawer that whispered “don’t open me” every few minutes.

Their first task: sort mortal submissions for divine approval.

The inbox was chaos.

- One mortal had submitted a 900-chapter webnovel about sentient noodles.

- Another had pitched a manga where the protagonist was a reincarnated spreadsheet.

- A third had uploaded 47 identical fanfics titled “My Manager Is a Tanuki.”

Ne Job stared. “Do I reject these?”

Seraphim-12 handed them a scroll labeled ‘Divine Engagement Protocols.’

Rule 1: All mortal creativity must be judged with divine neutrality.  

Rule 2: If it goes viral, pretend it was intentional.  

Rule 3: Never approve anything involving talking furniture.

Ne Job approved the spreadsheet manga. It immediately triggered a mortal trend called “Excel-core.”

Seraphim-12 sighed. “You’ve destabilized the algorithm.”

Ne Job grinned. “I call that engagement.”

Suddenly, the Bureau’s alarm system blared—a choir of disapproving angels.

> “Unauthorized meme detected in Sector 7. Deploy the Archangel of Compliance.”

A glowing orb descended, speaking in hashtags.

> “You have violated the Terms of Virality. Prepare for celestial audit.”

Ne Job panicked and grabbed the nearest scroll. It was labeled “Emergency Protocol: Mascot Deployment.”

“Drop-kun, I choose you!” Ne Job shouted.

From the scroll burst a chubby, winged tanuki wearing sunglasses and holding a clipboard. It winked and exploded into confetti.

The orb paused. “Is that… a Bureau-certified mascot?”

Seraphim-12 squinted. “That scroll was discontinued in 800 B.C.”

Ne Job shrugged. “Beginner luck?”

The orb blinked. “Mascot override accepted. Audit canceled.”

Seraphim-12 stared. “You just defused a divine audit with a tanuki.”

Ne Job sipped from their mug. “Technically, I’m a genius.”

“Technically,” Seraphim-12 muttered, “you’re a walking disaster.”

The next task was simple: file a soul report.

Ne Job opened the file labeled “Mortal #4421: Likes frogs, fears commitment, writes fanfiction.”

They accidentally merged it with “Mortal #4422: Aspiring frog, allergic to fanfiction.”

The result: a mortal who became a frog-themed romance novelist overnight.

Seraphim-12 screamed into their halo.

“You’ve triggered a genre shift in the mortal realm!”

Ne Job looked proud. “It’s trending.”

The Bureau’s walls trembled. A divine fax machine exploded. A cherub fainted.

Seraphim-12 grabbed Ne Job by the collar. “You are banned from filing.”

Ne Job nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

They immediately wandered into the Lore Engineering department and pressed a glowing button labeled “Do Not Press.”

The floor opened. A staircase descended into a vault filled with rejected plot devices.

Ne Job tripped and landed on a scroll labeled “Narrative Override: Protagonist Ascension.”

It activated.

Suddenly, Ne Job was glowing. Their mug turned into a scepter. Their typewriter began typing fanfiction on its own.

Seraphim-12 burst in. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Ne Job floated. “I think I triggered a subplot.”

The Bureau’s alarm system blared again.

> “Unauthorized ascension detected. Deploy the Plot Police.”

A squad of angels in trench coats appeared, wielding red pens.

Ne Job panicked. “I didn’t mean to ascend!”

Seraphim-12 grabbed the scroll. “This was supposed to be sealed!”

The Plot Police surrounded them.

> “You have 30 seconds to justify your narrative relevance.”

Ne Job gulped. “I’m… the intern?”

The angels paused. “Beginner luck?”

They nodded. “Beginner luck.”

The Plot Police vanished.

Seraphim-12 collapsed into a beanbag. “You are the luckiest idiot I’ve ever met.”

Ne Job sat beside them. “So… do I get promoted?”

Seraphim-12 groaned. “You get lunch.”

Ne Job cheered. “Cloud buns?”

“Expired ones.”

Ne Job bit into one. “Still tastes like victory.”