||OMG, IT’S HIM!!||
||THE VOCALOID PROPHET HAS ARRIVED!!||
||I heard his last battle had trauma, plot, and a remix! Like full trauma-dumpcore!!||
They surrounded Ren like a pack of caffeine-addled fangirls in heat. Glitter was in the air. Glitter was in the soil. Glitter was now in Ren’s lungs.
He didn’t even have the energy to swat away the chaos. His body was 30% bruises, 20% regret, and 50% spite-fueled Croc energy.
One bakeneko girl handed him a mic so sparkly it had its own gravitational field. Another slipped a sequined catboy jacket over his shoulders like it was some sacred garment passed down from the gods of glam rock and mental instability.
“Why is it so... moist?” Ren muttered. The jacket purred in response. It f*cking purred.
The self-proclaimed leader stepped up, her ears twitching with prophetic zeal. She pointed at him like she was choosing her next victim in dodgeball.
||Time for your audition. To lead us into the new age of Meowtallica Pop!!||
Ren stared at the mic like it had insulted his entire bloodline. He blinked slowly, dead inside.
“I just got drop-kicked by a DJ cat demon. I breakdanced through a collapsing subdimension filled with off-key dubstep and body horror. And now you want me to sing?”
The lights dimmed.
Another beat dropped.
Oh no.
From the fog emerged a glitter-covered tabby with stage presence so aggressive it should’ve been classified as a natural disaster. Her fur sparkled with radioactive malice. Her eyes glowed like someone had dipped two lemons in hellfire and stuck them into her skull.
She stepped forward and, without warning, launched into a high-pitched power ballad about emotional codependency—in E-flat. The pitch was so cursed it made Ren’s spine do the Harlem Shake.
It was... horrific.
It was art.
The crowd of bakeneko went feral.
One began sobbing into her paw. Another started clawing her own ears in tragic ecstasy. A third fainted dramatically, landing in the arms of a stray raccoon cosplaying as a manager.
Ren looked at the mic. Looked at the girls. Then back at the mic.
He sighed.
"I hate this afterlife."
Somewhere in the corner of the glitterbombed hellscape they dared call a stage, a vending machine loomed. It only sold expired tuna sealed in haunted glass jars that whispered slurs in eldritch tongues. Every time someone touched it, it screeched like an emotionally unstable kettle. No one knew why it was there. Even the vending machine didn’t know why it was there.
It was probably cursed. Just vibes.
Meanwhile, Ren’s sacred wig—once the peak of divine glam—had inexplicably grown a second wig. Like it cloned itself. Like it had evolved into a divine Pokémon form. It sat on top of the first wig like a crown made of fashion delusions.
The crowd lost their minds.
||DOUBLE WIG. HE HAS ASCENDED.||
One bakeneko collapsed, muttering something about wigmatized enlightenment. Another tried to snort glitter off the floor like it was powdered serotonin. A third screamed, “HIS AURA SMELLS LIKE GRILLED EDAMAME AND REGRET,” and honestly? Valid.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The catboy jacket, meanwhile, had developed full-blown sentience and was now adjusting itself on Ren like a jealous situationship. Every time he tried to shrug it off, it hissed. Literally hissed.
Ren narrowed his eyes. “You hiss at me again, and I’m yeeting you into the next cult I get dragged into.”
From backstage, a smoke machine decided to achieve enlightenment by going nuclear. It vomited out a miasma of Wet Fur? and industrial trauma. The air got so thick with bad decisions it could be cut with a cursed butter knife.
The disco ball overhead? Spinning at a speed that definitely breached some laws of physics. For exactly 3.4 seconds, everyone in the crowd was legally a K-pop backup dancer. One girl even summoned a lightstick from thin air and screamed in perfect pitch.
Back on stage, the radioactive tabby launched into another verse—this time balancing on one paw while spinning like a Beyblade made of daddy issues. Her backup dancers, three aggressively synchronized calicos, dropped into a move called “Despair Pirouette #9,” while projectile-vomiting glitter bombs from their mouths like demonic pi?atas.
Ren blinked.
"...I don’t get paid enough for this."
“You don’t get paid at all,” whispered his Crocs from the shadow realm.
The emotional ballad hit its tragic climax. The tabby’s voice cracked like a phone screen in rage. Cats in the audience began waving glow sticks shaped like sardines. They chanted in purr-speak, which Google Translate would’ve butchered, but roughly meant:
||CRY FOR US, MEOWSIAS. SHATTER THE HEAVENS WITH YOUR VOCAL RUNS.||
The mic started glowing. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like someone plugged it into a haunted USB port.
Ren sighed again, pure dead-eyed despair. Then he touched it.
ZAP.
A static shock so spicy it launched him backward into a suspiciously Comic Sans banner that read:
“MEOWTALLICA POP FESTIVAL 20XX: THE ERA OF CAT GIRL DOMINANCE”
The bakeneko girls tackled him like football linebackers on glitter crack. They slapped stickers of his face on his legs. One applied cat eyeliner with the kind of sniping precision that only comes from trauma bonding with K-pop tutorial videos.
||He must be beautiful for the finale.||
“I was already beautiful. Stop stabbing my cornea with that eyeliner pen, you chaotic feral menace—”
Meanwhile, in the crowd:
Aka Manto was chillin' with a surgical face mask and popcorn.
Jorogumo was live-tweeting everything under the tag #Renpocalypse.
Nurarihyon was trying to barter with a food stall for a ghost fish taco using expired subway tokens and a cursed sticker book.
Back on stage, the tabby was losing it. Her final chorus?
“Don’t Leave Me on Read (I’m Only Slightly Possessive)”
Ren’s ears bled. Somewhere, a banshee cried in solidarity.
But...
Something inside him snapped. The pressure. The trauma. The ungodly buildup of sparkles in his soul. The divine destiny of Meowtallica Pop vibrating in his bones.
He took a deep breath.
The mic surged with holy-cursed fury.
“FINE!!” he yelled.
He dropped into a power slide so intense it carved a trench into the floor. A literal trench. The glitter smoked. Cats screamed. Crocs squealed with approval.
He hit a falsetto so sharp, it shattered two glass tuna jars in the vending machine. The vending machine groaned like it had seen war.
The crowd lost it.
His jacket exploded into a shower of sequins and re-formed into a dramatic glitter trench coat with shoulder pads so powerful they entered another plane of existence. A mic stand rose from the floor like Excalibur from a synthwave bog.
Ghost cats—glowing, meowing, harmonic entities—materialized behind him. A cosmic choir.
The battle began.
Tabby launched first, flipping into a verse about fear of abandonment in D minor.
Ren fired back with a verse about being emotionally unavailable because he was literally ghost yeeted through nine damn dimensions.
Backup dancers were doing aerial flips. One spontaneously combusted. No one stopped dancing.
The lyrics spiraled into chaos:
“Meow meow don’t ghost me, or I’ll haunt your DMs.”
“I’m not your baby—I’m a bad bitch in fur.”
“Scratch my heart—nine times regret.”
Ren, possessed by rage and sparkle, ripped off his second wig. Underneath?
A third, smaller, angrier wig.
It screamed.
The tabby panicked and tried to summon a vocaloid dragon. She summoned her ex instead. He appeared, said “babe please,” and got booed offstage by 400 cats throwing glow sticks and their unresolved issues at him.
The final chorus came down like divine retribution wrapped in synth beats.
Ren screamed. Ren twirled. Ren did a split that shattered medical logic and probably his spine.
The ghost cat choir shrieked behind him, harmonizing in a frequency that banished unworthy spirits and bad fashion choices.
||RAAAAUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!!||
BLACKOUT.
Silence.
Then—
A single neon pawprint pulsed onstage.
||BATTLE CLEAR: POP VOCAL ASCENSION||
The bakeneko girls SWARMED HIM. They hoisted him up like Simba at a My Chemical Romance concert.
“HE’S THE MESSIAH OF POP MEOWDERNITY!!”
Ren's eyelid twitched. He coughed up glitter. His Crocs began vibrating with unholy euphoria. One of them hummed the bridge of a cursed K-drama OST.
A massive floating scoreboard materialized above the stage:
999,999 POINTS – REN THE GLITTERBANE
Confetti cannons exploded—but instead of confetti, they fired catnip and ancient scrolls with prophecies written in Comic Sans and blood.
The air smelled like victory, static electricity, and unresolved trauma.
Ren, swaying like a drunk anime protagonist, whispered:
“Can I go home now?”
No one heard him.
The disco ball started spinning again.
The mic sparked ominously.
The next battle would be worse.
