The problem wasn't that the auditor arrived unannounced.
The problem was that the auditor arrived by falling through the ceiling like a meteor made of paperwork.
The marble tiles above Administrative Sector 42 detonated into a flurry of dust. A glowing sigil carved into the audit badge slammed into the ground like a divine stamp of disapproval. For a heartbeat all was silent—then the badge exploded into a shower of ink.
Not regular ink, either.
Weaponized, hyper-caffeinated, legalese ink.
Assistant Yue dove forward, dragging Ne Job behind a pillar as the ink splashed the floor and immediately manifested into three-foot-tall letters spelling out: "NONCOMPLIANCE."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME—!" Ne Job wheezed.
The letters rolled like boulders, smashing cubicles, shredding memos, and flattening one unfortunate Heavenly Accountant who squeaked, "We don't even do compliance in this division—!" before being buried under bolded typography.
Then the ink vortex resolved into a figure.
White-and-gold robes, pressed so flawlessly they might have been ironed by cosmic radiation. A face that was symmetrical in the way an execution warrant was symmetrical: cruel, precise, and terrifyingly calm.
Shard Court Judge.
He didn't walk down from the floating ink platform—he descended the way a guilty verdict descends: inevitable.
Yue's stomach tightened.
The last time she saw that man, he'd handled a full departmental purge. Entire divisions erased because someone misfiled a decommissioned god in the Wrong Pantheon Drawer.
Princess Ling whispered, "Oh light above… we're dead dead."
"WHAT DO YOU EVEN WANT?!" Lord Bureaucrat Xian shouted from the mezzanine, voice cracking like an intern. "I submitted the budget revisions!"
Shard Court Judge raised one finger.
Every ticking clock in the Bureau stopped.
Every pen in midair froze, ink droplets suspended like constellations.
The entire department held its breath.
Even Evil Manual Spirit—who had been lurking near the vending machine like a predator waiting for a snack—slithered backwards and hid behind the "Wellness Corner" ficus.
"I am not here," the Judge said, voice perfectly even, "for your budget."
A hundred bureaucrats collectively exhaled in relief.
"I am here," he continued, eyes like guillotine blades turning toward the ground floor, "for the aberration."
His gaze landed on Ne Job.
Ne Job blinked.
"…Me?" he squeaked.
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why do you keep saying it like you're surprised?"
"I WAS JUST INTERNSHIP SHOPPING!" Ne Job protested. "Nobody said anything about aberr—"
The Judge snapped his fingers.
A light burst around Ne Job—brilliant, cold, clinical. His intern badge ignited and projected holographic text above his head.
STATUS:
Intern (Unranked)
Mission Log: Corrupted
Karma Balance: Negative 43,291
Incident Count: 58 (this week)
A silence like the moment before execution settled.
Then, chaos.
"NEGATIVE FORTY-THREE THOUSAND?!" Princess Ling screamed.
Dreivery Spirit Bao fainted. His delivery routes shrieked across the Bureau hallways, magical drones spinning like drunken mosquitoes.
Yue slapped her forehead. "You told me your balance was just 'kinda bad.'"
"Kinda is a spectrum!" Ne Job shouted. "I didn't know numbers COULD go that low!"
The Judge looked unfazed. "Your existence is a violation of Mandate Twelve, Subsection D. Mortals are not to be permitted hazardous impact events unless pre-certified by an Ascendant Handler." His gaze flicked to Yue. "Your certification is incomplete."
Yue choked. "Incomplete? I passed the theoretical exam!"
"Yes," he said flatly, "but failed the Ethics Practical."
"That was ONE DEMON LORD—"
"It was three."
Yue's eye twitched violently.
Ne Job tugged her sleeve. "Ethics practical? Why didn't you tell me you failed ethics?"
"Because nobody sane tells their intern they're on a partial probationary leash while supervising a divine child!"
"You're not supervising me," Ne Job muttered. "You're babysitting me with violence."
Before Yue could respond with a counterargument that definitely involved violence, the Judge conjured a crystalline dossier—twelve inches thick, carved from shattered verdicts.
He dropped it.
The dossier hit the floor with the sound of an apocalypse clock chiming noon.
The title etched on the spine:
THE ABERRANT INTERN: GLOBAL RISK ASSESSMENT.
Ne Job made a sound not found in human languages.
Shard Court Judge opened the dossier with ritualistic precision.
"Case File 1: The Incident at the Lotus Registry."
Ne Job blanched. "I can explain that one!"
Princess Ling snorted. "You set the Lotus Registry's sacred servers on fire."
"They told me to upload my ID! I didn't know the upload button had a sentience threshold!"
Yue buried her face in her hands as the Judge calmly flipped pages.
"Case File 12: The Meteor Licensing Catastrophe."
"That wasn't my fault! Bao told me meteors counted as express courier parcels!"
Dreivery Spirit Bao, still semi-conscious, moaned weakly, "It's… true… they do… if properly declared…"
The Judge moved on.
"Case File 37: Unauthorized Summoning of the Forgotten God of Paperwork."
Everyone in the hall turned to the dusty corner where an ancient, skeletal being sat hunched over a mound of documents.
Forgotten God of Paperwork didn't even look up.
He just croaked, "Still paying off that ritual surcharge, brat."
Ne Job winced. "It was a clerical error!"
"You sacrificed sixteen office staplers and a vending machine!"
"Paperwork requires offerings!"
Yue exhaled slowly, reminding herself she had chosen this internship. She had picked up the divine child. She had read the warnings. She could have turned around at multiple junctures in her life.
But no. She signed the form.
Shard Court Judge let the dossier snap closed. The sound was final.
"You are to be decommissioned," he said simply.
The word dropped like a guillotine.
Several interns screamed. One shouted "I KNEW IT!" and resigned on the spot.
Ne Job froze—utterly still. His eyes wide, reflective. For once, no jokes, no shrieks, no impulsive tantrum.
Just the quiet terror of a boy who'd never been allowed to be a boy.
"But…" he whispered. "I haven't even finished Day One."
Yue felt something snap inside her.
She stepped forward.
"Shard," she said, voice hard as tempered steel. "You're invoking Mandate Twelve on a child."
He looked at her, expression mildly curious. "The Mandate doesn't specify age."
"It doesn't have to. You swore an oath." Yue pointed at the Judge's sigil. "All Court Agents are bound by the Doctrine of Potential. Ascendant beings must be evaluated for their capacity to grow, not destroyed because they're inconvenient."
Shard Court Judge blinked.
That was dangerous.
Nobody made him blink.
"It is irrelevant," he said quietly. "He is an existential disruptor."
"That's because no one has trained him!" Yue shouted. "He's been passed around like a cursed hot potato—everyone wants the paperwork credit, nobody wants responsibility!"
A whisper moved through the Bureau.
Princess Ling looked at Yue with something like awe.
Even Lord Bureaucrat Xian straightened.
Yue wasn't done.
"You want to decommission him? Fine," she said, stepping between Ne Job and the Judge. "Then you decommission me."
Ne Job choked. "YUE—"
"Shut up," she hissed, not taking her eyes off the Judge.
Shard Court Judge studied her. Not hostile. Not angry. Just… measuring.
"For what purpose?" he asked.
"To prove I can handle him." Yue's fists clenched until her nails drew blood. "Give me a provisional trial period. I'll make him pass audit compliance."
Ne Job whispered, "I can't even pass cafeteria protocols—"
"SHUT. UP."
Shard Court Judge folded his hands behind his back.
"If he fails," he said, "you will be erased from Bureau records."
"Fine."
"And your soul will be rendered into unfiled memos."
"I've lived worse."
"And all your accumulated overtime will be reallocated to the Demon Logistics Department."
Yue hesitated.
"...Even my triple weekends?"
"Yes."
Yue considered her options.
She sighed.
"Deal."
A collective gasp shot through the Bureau.
Shard Court Judge nodded once.
A golden brand seared to life on Yue's wrist—spiraling sigils of binding authority.
Ne Job stared at her like she'd just offered herself to a volcano to save his stupid picnic.
"I— I don't— why would you—"
"Because," Yue said, grabbing his collar, "if you're going to destroy the heavens one disaster at a time, you're doing it under supervision."
Shard Court Judge raised his palm.
A new slab of paperwork materialized in the air.
Trial Period Terms.
Provisional Compliance Requirements.
Deadlines.
Subdeadlines.
Microdeadlines.
And something called a Soul Debt Interest Rate.
Ne Job fainted.
The Bureau erupted into pandemonium.
Yue looked at the Judge.
He regarded her like a chess piece moved into a deadly position.
"You have thirty days," he said.
Then he vanished—ink, verdict, sigil—gone.
Silence flooded the hall.
Yue exhaled.
"Okay," she muttered. "We're screwed."
Princess Ling patted her shoulder. "Completely and absolutely."
Ne Job stirred. "…Did I pass orientation?"
Yue rubbed her temples.
"Lesson one," she said, voice like distant thunder. "Shut up and wake up. We're not dying this month."
---
End of Chapter 177