Mt. Fuji exploded behind him like the world's angriest pinata.
Ren didn't look back.
He couldn't.
He was too busy sprinting down Japan's deadliest mountain turned volcano ...
...in his socks.
~~~
Meanwhile, Kaifu—still at the summit, still radiating Elder God menace like a molten menace straight outta cosmic horror fanfic—reached up into the air with one colossal lava-finger...
...and snapped.
A sound like the Big Bang’s remix dropped across the sky.
Everything went dead silent.
Even the fire tornadoes froze mid-vibe, spinning mid-air like they’d just been caught simping for Taylor Swift.
From the inferno above, something descended.
It gleamed. It shimmered. It spun.
Like destiny got drunk and dropped its glitter purse on the world.
A wig.
But not just any wig.
This was THE wig.
The chosen one. The sacred relic. The strand-woven salvation.
The first of five legendary, sacred, Trans-yokai wigs said to extend his soul collection deadline.
Rumor had it this thing once tamed a wrathful storm spirit with just a hair flip.
It glowed like the last serotonin pill in a burned-out world.
It had glitter. It had swag.
It had main character energy and backup dancer confidence.
It looked like it belonged in a Beyonce concert and a Final Fantasy cutscene.
If you stared at it long enough, you could hear faint K-pop harmonies in the wind.
Ren, now standing shakily amid the lava hellscape, bruised and BBQed, caught it.
Cue ‘EVIL J0RDAN’.
Time slowed.
Fire froze.
Birds in the distance paused to appreciate the moment.
The sky lowkey saluted him.
Ren stood tall.
Hair scorched. Eyebrows singed.
Shirt 60% missing. Morale? Questionable.
But that WIG—gleaming like hope in a bottle—rested in his hands.
And for just one second, he looked...
...cool.
Like, unironically cool. Screenshot-worthy cool. TikTok edit cool.
But of course, the universe has a chokehold on his dignity.
A toxic ex, if you will.
The second after he caught it, Kaifu roared again:
||NOW RUN, LITTLE RAT—RUN FOR THY DAMN LIFE.||
And then?
All hell.
Truly. Unfiltered. RAW. Hell.
No ketchup. Just flames.
Lava geysers burst from the mountainside, sending spirals of magma arcing into the sky like fireworks from Satan’s birthday party.
The terrain split beneath Ren’s feet, sending him sliding, stumbling, and screaming down a crumbling slope.
Fire tornadoes emerged from the volcano’s throat, spinning and cackling like banshees on crack.
And not the friendly, ghost-story kind. The “I'm gonna slap your whole bloodline” kind.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
One of them yeeted a tree fifty feet into the air like it owed them money.
Another melted a boulder just by side-eyeing it.
Ren, clutching the wig to his chest like it was his last chance at not becoming Yokai barbecue, started sprinting again.
Down the mountain (volcano? mental breakdown zone?).
Through ash and flame.
Through falling rocks and shrieking monsters and the smell of burning everything.
He dodged a yokai on fire.
He dodged a literal demon goose.
He dodged an exploding squirrel for some reason.
Like who TF enchanted a rodent with C4?
The air itself felt like it wanted him dead.
It was spicy. Aggressively spicy.
But he didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t. Stop.
“NONONONONONONO—”
Behind him, the eruption climaxed, a blast of light and sound that shattered clouds and caused minor existential crises across the region.
A shrine maiden fainted three towns over.
And still, he ran.
One shoe on. Hoodie burning.
Cry-sprinting his way into legend.
And as the music peaked—maybe in his head, maybe in the universe itself—Ren reached the edge of the mountain—scorched, exhausted, borderline feral....
...and leapt.
Mid-air, time slowed.
Again.
Of course it did.
Because drama.
He looked back.
Mt. Fuji raged behind him, ash curling like smoke from an ancient pipe.
Kaifu stood atop it, glowing like a dying star, watching with that smug, satisfied look of “LMAO. Get rekt, loser.”
Ren flipped him off.
Double finger. Maximum pettiness.
Landed.
Rolled. Coughed. Wheezed.
Fought for breath like it owed him rent.
And collapsed.
The wig still in his arms.
His first reward. His first miracle.
His first step toward freedom.
And as he passed out face-first in the mud, he smiled.
Because against all odds, all chaos, all cosmic roasts and lava-induced trauma—
He survived.
He lived.
He got the damn wig.
And somewhere, the gods facepalmed, because the wrong idiot just got his first W.
Ubume, deciding it was time to show up again, beamed ever so innocently.
||See? Character growth arc!||
Before Ren could reply, however, the ground below him exploded. (again)
Oops, looks like Ren had to run. (again??)
Amid the chaos, the smoke, and the raw unfiltered apocalypse spiraling around Mt. Fuji's meltdown, Ren was losing it.
And not like "haha silly goofy Ren losing it," nah— this was full mental breakdown in 4K Ultra-HD.
He'd dodged flaming squirrels, flame-throwing geese, and even a cursed anime body pillow that tried to strangle him.
His one remaining sock was turning into a burnt tortilla chip.
The other foot? Raw dogging the molten earth like it was a hot yoga mat.
Every step was a jump-scare.
He swore his toenails were cooking.
That's when—
Outta flipping nowhere.
A glowy-ass portal ripped open right in front of him, spewing glitter and jazz music. It smelled like sandalwood and betrayal.
From it stepped out... a figure.
Draped in divine silk robes, sunglasses perched on their glowing third eye, and riding a floating beanbag throne—
THE DIVINE SOCK MERCHANT.
She said in a voice that sounded like five lo-fi playlists stacked together.
||Greetings, my burnt little chicken nugget,||
Ren blinked.
"...huh?"
The merchant extended a manicured hand.
||You seek salvation for your crispy footsies, yes? For a mere three souls and a meme, I shall grant you these—||
They snapped.
A pair of socks levitated into the air like holy relics in a JRPG cutscene. Glowing. Hovering.
Humming with pure anti-lava energy.
||BEHOLD. Lava-proof. Flame-retardant. Blessed by an archangel with foot-fetish issues. And stylish.||
They had fangs.
The socks.
The socks had fangs.
Ren, sweating through his eyeballs, muttered:
"I... I don't have three souls."
The merchant side-eyed him.
||You smell like you've bartered your dignity before. Improvise.||
Ren panicked. Searched his pockets.
Nothing but lint, tears, and emotional instability.
Then— lightbulb!
He pulled out his phone.
Found the meme.
A deep-fried, 2012-era, bottom-text-core Spongebob meme.
Captioned:
"When the volcano erupts and you still got drip ????"
He showed it.
The merchant gasped.
||Rare. Forbidden. Banned in twelve spirit realms. Accepted.||
They took it.
Snapped again.
The socks floated down.
Ren didn't hesitate.
He jammed those holy bastards on mid-run, barely tripping over a rock that was probably cursed with mild embarrassment.
The second they touched his feet—
BOOM.
A shockwave of divine foot aura blasted out.
The fire tornadoes paused. Looked confused. One of them clapped slowly.
Ren SKIDDED across lava like a ballerina with trauma, the socks leaving sparkling footprints that played jazz.
He hit a full Michael Jackson moonwalk across a collapsing lava bridge.
Every step was pure dopamine.
He was unstoppable.
Until—
A squirrel. The same one. The exploding squirrel.
Ren stepped on it.
It f***ing detonated.
Cue Looney Tunes explosion. Smoke. Blackened soot.
He stood there, eyes wide, hair blasted back, socks still intact, dignity not so much.
The merchant, sipping boba in the background, whispered:
||Limited warranty doesn't cover rodent mines, honey.||
Ren, face blackened like a burnt marshmallow, just muttered:
"...worth it."
you think this is a normal story? skill issue.
this is emotional damage with fire tornadoes.
did he survive by sheer dumb luck and spite? absolutely.
will he get new socks?
