The floor shifted beneath him like it had grown tired of hosting his stupidity. A trapdoor flung open.
Ren fell.
Again.
"THIS IS BULLSHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—"
~~~
Okay, welcome to Yokai Physics 101: Explosions and Other Things Ren Will Never Understand. Let's start with the real tea—Ren shot the wrong goddamn cylinder. Man had a whole buffet of explosive potential, and he chose the one labeled "This One's Just Vibes" like it was a scented candle from Hell's Bath & Body Works. Explosions require a very specific trifecta of dumbassery: combustible gas, high pressure, and an ignition source. Our dude had none of that. The gas inside that tank wasn't even flammable— it was basically spiritual LaCroix. Probably carbonated shame and leftover breath from the mountain itself. Without a decent fuel-to-air ratio or proper containment, you're not getting a Michael Bay boom—you're getting the spiritual equivalent of a vape pen sighing its last. Sh*t didn't even have enough energy to fizzle with pride, it just went "psssssst" like a depressed teapot. Physics laws were sitting back, sipping cosmic tea, watching Ren fail Thermodynamics 101 in 4K.
And let's talk pressure, baby. You want a cylinder to explode? That gas inside has to be under pressure, like "finals week, three Red Bulls, and a crying breakdown in the bathroom" levels of compressed. But this sad excuse of a tank had probably been leaking since the Edo period. It was limp. Weak. Like, not even erectile dysfunction weak—spiritually impotent. Ren's bullet didn't even trigger combustion because there wasn't anything to ignite; it just perforated the world's saddest balloon. All the other tanks? Equally useless. One meowed. Another started singing off-key K-pop ballads. The rest were filled with government-grade bullshit gases like Anxietene (which just makes your serotonin break up with you) or Bropane [wih a 'B'] (literally labeled "flammable in theory"). The whole room was a Fire Hazard Zero Zone, engineered to specifically piss off anyone expecting action. Karasujin knew this. That bitch handed Ren a gun and told him to "shoot the vibes" like he was ordering divine DoorDash. It was never gonna explode. It was never meant to. That sh*t was an allegory for Ren's entire arc: loud expectations, zero payoff, and a leaf catching mild warmth while his dignity got elbow-dropped by entropy.
But the final L? That's on Mt. Gasan. The mountain is sentient, petty, and anti-main-character as f*ck. It watched Ren approach with all the anime protagonist buildup—wind, lightning, dramatic monologue—and said "Nah, this ain't that kind of story." Gasan probably rerouted the explosion with pure spite, just to make Ren look like a dumbass in front of the Crocs. Like, imagine bending physics not to save the world, but to cockblock one glittery himbo from having his cool guy moment. And it worked. Instead of a fiery boom, we got a warm leaf and the echo of Ren's pride shattering into meme particles. That hiss? That wasn't gas escaping. That was the mountain exhaling disappointment. Literal volcanic side-eye. Science didn't fail Ren. Physics didn't fail Ren. Ren failed science. He pulled the trigger on "vibes" and expected plot progression. All he got was a trapdoor and gravity yeeting him to hell with a Yelp review that just says "Try harder."
But back to Ren, who fell into a trapdoor waiting to gobble him, if I remember right....
~~~
Ren woke up on a floor that was suspiciously clean. Like, weirdly clean. Like someone had bullied the dirt into non-existence with lemon-scented bleach and bad vibes.
His first thought:
"Where am I?"
His second thought:
"Why does it smell like lavender trauma and passive-aggressive enlightenment?"
The room around him was... too symmetrical.
Like, interior-design-Instagram-core levels of symmetrical. Cherry blossom decals on the wall. Incense that smelled like judgment.
And motivational posters.
So. Many. Posters.
"Struggle is just trauma in heels."
"Pain is growth. Unless it's appendicitis."
"If you're going through hell, monetize it."
"#LiveLaughLobotomy."
Ren sat up, brain rebooting like a cursed Windows XP. There was no visible door. No windows. Just a glowing neon sign above a statue of a smiling yokai that read:
WELCOME, SEEKER OF SELF
THIS IS NOT A CULT.
(But also, like, it kinda is.)
Ren muttered:
"...Oh no, I've entered a f*cking escape room. Made by LinkedIn demons."
Suddenly, the walls lit up like a college presentation nobody wanted to attend.
A monotone voice echoed from nowhere. It sounded like Siri if she'd majored in psychology and never recovered.
|| Welcome, Ren. You have been chosen to ascend. Please complete the following tasks to unlock your inner self. ||
Ren, blinking:
"Can I not?"
|| Failure to comply will result in the summoning of Motivational Entities. ||
"...Uh-Oh."
TASK 1: The Puzzle of Self-Reflection?
Before him appeared a table. On it: a broken mirror, a single Uno reverse card, and a Rubik's cube that looked like it had beef with reality.
The setup looked like it had trauma, taxes due, and a one-sided situationship with the concept of physics.
Ren squinted.
"What kind of Dollar Store spirit quest is this?"
Like, Think if IKEA furniture assembly instructions got rewritten by a stoned philosophy major.
He poked the mirror as one does when faced with cursed objects and zero will to live.
Wrong move.
With a violent POOF of glitter smoke and mental illness, the first Motivational Speaker Yokai appeared.
The air smelled like Axe body spray and unresolved masculinity.
It wore a headset mic, gym shorts, and enough self-esteem to drown a small nation. Its abs were sponsored by protein powder and emotional repression.
The man looked like a TED Talk and a CrossFit ad had a baby during a midlife crisis.
It boomed:
||HELLO, FAILURE-IN-PROGRESS! I'M BRAXTON THE BLAZING AFFIRMATION. I WILL NOW ROAST YOUR EXISTENCE INTO GROWTH.||
His voice had the energy of an MLM bro who just hit diamond tier and thinks therapy is "for quitters."
Ren, horrified:
"Please don't."
He sounded like someone who just opened their laptop to 47 tabs of mental health quizzes.
Braxton, ignoring Ren:
||I SEE YOUR AURA. IT'S... PATCHY. YOUR INNER CHILD IS MALNOURISHED AND PLAYING FORTNITE IN A CORNER.||
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
|| (also, he just got no-scoped by an 11-year-old named Brxxtyn_420.) ||
Ren froze.
"I—what??"
A valid response to spiritual cyberbullying.
Braxton snapped, summoning a flipchart labeled "How To Stop Being Useless: A Masterclass."
The font was Comic Sans. That hurt more than the insults.
||STEP ONE: FIX YOUR SLEEP SCHEDULE.||
Ren muttered:
"Cool. Btw Sleep Schedule who? Never heard of that...."
||STEP TWO: STOP LETTING YOUR SELF-WORTH BE DICTATED BY TALKING ANIMALS IN WIGS.||
Silence. (internal laughing. ROFL, if you will)
Then:
"Bro, I've been spiritually mugged like six times this week. One of them stole my soul and my left sock."
||GOOD. TRAUMA BUILDS CHARACTER. PAIN IS THE PROTEIN SHAKE OF THE SOUL.||
It flexed so hard, somewhere a therapist burst into tears.
||STEP THREE: Touch grass.||
Ren's face brightened:
"Oh, easy."
And he went and touched Braxton.
||STEP FOUR: Apologize to your liver.||
Ren stared, mentally filing this under "Top Ten Things That Should Be Illegal." Just under "astrology-based tax fraud" and "emotional support NFTs."
Braxton flexed, exploded into glitter, and disappeared.
The glitter was cherry-scented and absolutely cursed.
The Siri-esque voice echoed.
|| Task failed. Moving on. ||
TASK 2: The Maze of Emotional Intelligence?
A door unzipped itself from the wallpaper (???), revealing a corridor lined with screaming motivational quotes.
The door moaned like it was deeply disappointed in him. Which, fair.
Back to the quotes tho:
"BE THE CHAOS YOU WISH TO SEE IN THE WORLD."
"EVERY TEAR IS JUST AN UNCRIED LAUGH."
"CRY HARDER, LOSER."
Someone clearly gave Memeulous a Red Bull and let him write Etsy wall art.
Each step triggered floor tiles that moaned "growth" underfoot.
It sounded like a yoga influencer trying to seduce you into journaling.
Ren, deadpanning:
"Nope. This is a pyramid scheme for emotions."
Somewhere, a chakra got blocked out of sheer offense.
He made it halfway through before stepping on a wrong tile.
POOF.
This time, a yokai in a turtleneck and holding a TED Talk clicker materialized. Her PowerPoint had 76 slides.
And the energy of a divorced English teacher who just discovered trauma theory and never looked back.
||I am Veronique. I have read 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck' seventeen times. Welcome to my trauma TED Talk.||
Her bangs screamed "shadow work" and "I drink oat milk but judge almond."
Ren, pleading with cartoon-like baby eyes:
"Can I just solve a riddle or something? Please?? I'll do a Sudoku. Hell, I'll fistfight a sphinx. Just. NOT. THIS."
Veronique adjusted her glasses.
||Your abandonment issues are shaped like a fish. A sad goldfish named Carl who sings Billie Eilish at night, to be precise.||
Ren:
"...Excuse me??"
(same, bestie. same.)
||You fear connection. You self-sabotage. And your fashion sense is crying for help. Crocs? Really? The color scheme alone qualifies as a hate crime.||
"THEY'RE COMFY."
That was his hill to die on, apparently.
||Comfort is stagnation. Challenge is couture. Fashion over function, bitch.||
Veronique clicked her remote.
A slide popped up: "Slay Your Inner Demons (Before They Start a Podcast)."
Subtitle: "How to emotionally detox without sage or screaming into Tupperware."
Ren started screaming.
A high-pitched "I hate it here" echoed through 14 dimensions.
She nodded sagely.
||Good. That's progress.||
Her clipboard had tally marks under "cried today: yes/no."
She too exploded into sparkles and unresolved parent issues.
A trauma bomb with a glitter aftertaste.
The Siri-esque voice echoed (tbh I like calling it that) :
|| Task failed. Please breathe deeply and attempt the next challenge. ||
Ren yelled:
"I SWEAR TO GOD—"
He was gonna square up with the Buddha if one more yokai popped out.
TASK 3: The Circle of Trust Falls?
A pit opened up in the middle of the shrine. Ren didn't fall into it.
He dangled over it like a meat-based pendulum.
He looked like a sad gym class pinata full of unresolved daddy issues.
The voice spoke again.
|| Let yourself fall. Trust the universe. ||
Ren scoffed.
"No thanks. Last time I trusted the universe, I ended up in a pop battle against a catboy with abandonment issues."
He still had the emotional whiplash and claw marks.
|| Fall, Ren. ||
"Flip you."
He said with the trembling fury of someone two affirmations away from a breakdown.
A small nudge.
And he fell.
Screamed.
Landed.
On a beanbag.
One of those cheap ones that smell like regret and Cheeto dust.
A yokai therapist in a cardigan appeared with a clipboard and zero moral compass.
The clipboard said "Tuesdays are for trauma."
||I'm Gerald. I facilitate breakthroughs through blunt-force honesty.||
He looked like a therapist who bills in emotional damage.
Ren wheezed.
"Can I not be psychoanalyzed today? Can I just be dumb and hot in peace?"
||No. This is a Safe Unsafe Space?. You're safe to be broken, but not safe from me.||
He tapped his pen.
||You don't cry because you're strong. You cry inside, where it becomes resentment. (Which you then project onto fictional characters and social media rants.)||
"Bitch—"
The voice cracked halfway through.
||You seek chaos because it's easier than admitting you want love. And also because the chaos gives you personality points.||
Ren hissed like a cornered possum.
Feral, glittery, and emotionally unstable.
Gerald smiled.
||Let's unpack your mother wound— and maybe color-code it for your coping mechani—"
Ren threw the beanbag at him.
Fueled by spite and barely-surviving sanity.
It passed through.
Gerald vanished with a sad jazz note and the smell of chamomile and passive-aggression.
The Siri-esque voice sighed. Then it echoed in a (kinda?) resigned tone:
|| Final task initiated. ||
TASK 4: The Exit Exam of Enlightenment?
Ren found himself back in the main room. The statue was glowing. A final poster descended from the ceiling like divine cringe.
It rotated slowly like a PowerPoint slide on a really dramatic transition setting.
"TRUE ENLIGHTENMENT IS REALIZING YOU'RE KIND OF A DUMBASS, AND THAT'S OKAY."
Font: Curlz MT. Background: flames. Vibe: Biblical meme.
A new figure appeared.
A fusion of all three Motivational Speaker Yokai.
Braxton's muscles. Veronique's turtleneck. Gerald's dead eyes.
A walking abomination of vibes, like if a self-help section came to life and wanted a hug and a fight.
It was... The Ultimate Mentor Yokai.
||HELLO, DUMBASS. THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHALLENGE. Prepare to be therapized and pulverized.||
Ren curled into a fetal position.
His emotional support position.
||You must accept that you are a work-in-progress, fueled by memes, trauma, and spite. Oh, and caffeine. Lots of it."
Ren whimpered.
The sound of a soul that's been stretched like emotional taffy.
||You are not a disaster. You are a franchise. Now go sell merch with your dysfunction.||
Ren whispered:
"...I hate this place. I'd rather be haunted by tax spirits."
The figure handed him a graduation cap made of dried tears and glitter. It crinkled when he touched it. Like disappointment wrapped in sequins.
||You may now leave.||
Ren flipped them off, took the cap anyway, and stomped through the now-revealed exit.
The most petty graduation walk in existence.
As he walked out, a final message blared over the speakers:
|| Congratulations. You have survived spiritual multi-level marketing. ||
After a few seconds:
|| No refunds. ||
A door slammed behind him.
He was outside.
Free.
Alone.
More traumatized and emotionally exfoliated.
With glitter in his teeth.
~~~
Ren strutted out the shrine like it owed him child support— coat swishing, middle fingers high, glitter still stuck in his teeth. The exit slammed shut behind him with dramatic finality, like even the universe was done.
He didn’t look back. Legends don’t.
He just muttered:
“Never trusting posters again”
~~~
Up on the jagged spine of Mt. Gasan, where the air tasted like cold secrets and altitude-induced regret, Ren stood alone, covered in emotional debris and sparkles he *still* couldn’t scrub off. The world had gone quiet—eerily so, like even the crickets were holding their breath.
Then it started.
The moon rose.
Not in some gentle, aesthetic girlboss way either. Nah, this wasn’t your average Pinterest moonrise. This was drama. This was entrance. This was the moon showing up fashionably late to its own concert, wearing a sequined cloak of cloud scraps and silently demanding applause.
It breached the horizon like a boss fight cutscene— pale and full of unresolved tension. At first, just a silver edge peeking out from behind a row of solemn clouds shaped suspiciously like judgmental frogs. Then slowly, inevitably, the whole disk ascended, glowing like a haunted spotlight. It painted the sky in shades of ghostlight blue and melancholic lavender, like someone spilled the emotional color palette of a lo-fi anime outro all over the atmosphere.
Below, the world unspooled. Forests like black lace, rivers reflecting like liquid mercury, and cities far off blinking like bored stardust. The moonlight didn’t just touch things—it *claimed* them. Shadows sharpened. Rocks glistened. Even the air itself looked dusted with shimmer, like the mountain had been photoshopped by a bisexual cryptid with access to light filters.
Ren squinted at the view, still chewing the aftertaste of trauma and motivational glitter.
“Okay,” he muttered. “That’s kinda sexy.”
The moon— absolutely unbothered, slightly threatening— continued its climb, now fully aloft, bathing the mountaintop in soft, surgical brilliance. It was big tonight. Too big. Like “you’ve angered an ancient deity” big. Or “plot twist incoming” big.
The clouds parted like curtains in a ghost opera, revealing stars that had been lurking backstage. A breeze slithered by, carrying the scent of pine, wet stone, and the existential dread of being temporarily at peace.
Everything felt... still.
Cosmic, even.
Like the universe took a break from bullying him and gave him five seconds to just *be*. His Crocs crunched slightly on the gravel. He wrapped his arms around himself— not for warmth, but to keep the silence from entering his ribcage and rewriting his emotional firmware.
Behind him, the ruins of spiritual MLM nonsense still smoked faintly.
Before him, the moon lit the way like a cosmic searchlight for dumbasses on redemption arcs.
And above it all, the sky stretched wide and endless, a velvet void dusted with glitter Ren hadn’t spilled this time.
For the first time in what felt like centuries (or at least two chapters), Ren didn’t feel like he was running.
He just stood there.
Under a moon too beautiful to be sane.
And he let it rise.
Ren tilted his chin up, that stupid smirk curling like destiny had just handed him a mic.
Then he said, voice smooth and deadly.
"You glow, I glare. Know the damn difference, spotlight."
The wind howled like it owed him money.
Ren stood at the cliff’s edge, coat snapping behind him like drama incarnate. The moon peeked from behind a veil of clouds, timid and pale—trying to set the mood, maybe. Ren scoffed, eyes glinting like he had beef with the sky itself.
Lightning cracked behind him for no reason. Somewhere, fate rolled its eyes. The moon retreated. Ren didn’t.
And just then, something/someone smacked him in the back of his head.
