No one heard him.
The disco ball started spinning again.
The mic sparked ominously.
The next battle would be worse.
~~~
Ren barely had time to scream before the Spirit Train went *zoom*—and by *zoom* we mean full Fast & Furious family-core straight off the rails of existence. One second, he was being hoisted like K-pop Simba, glitter still in his mouth. The next? An Oni conductor with rage issues and zero emotional support hurled him back onto the train like a cursed boomerang.
||NO REFUNDS!|| the Oni screamed, yeeting him through the train doors like divine garbage.
The train rocketed forward, physics sobbing in the background. Stars blurred into chaos. Clouds parted like traumatized NPCs. Crocs flapped in the wind like battle flags.
Ahead: Mt. Gasan.
And oh boy, Mt. Gasan did **not** look like your average peak.
~~~
AERIAL CAM MODE: ACTIVATED
Mt. Gasan rose from the earth like it was auditioning to be the final boss in a JRPG. The mountain wasn’t *formed*—it was *forged*, probably in a divine tantrum. Jagged cliffs jutted out like the broken teeth of an angry god. Lava rivers glowed with the enthusiasm of a rave thrown by volcano cultists. Ash clouds spun in slow motion, glitching between storm and hallucination.
Lightning arced between peaks like the sky was trying to beatbox. Smoke belched from craters shaped like cursed emojis. Somewhere near the summit, a floating temple spun in mid-air, defying gravity, logic, and probably zoning laws. Each side of the mountain had its own weather pattern and emotional breakdown.
On the east side? A snowstorm, but only snow made of dandruff. It smelled vaguely of shame and expired skincare products.
South face? Heatwaves that whispered your insecurities in your ex’s voice. Some of them even had PowerPoint slides.
West cliffs? Landslides with anxiety. Literal rocks rolling downhill while sobbing.
North trail? Just one giant bird flipping you off. It made eye contact. It meant it.
The base was worse. Haunted shrines, ghost vending machines, feral wind yokai in crop tops—it was like someone had tried to summon a sacred landmark and rage-quit halfway. There was a screaming tree. Nobody knew why it screamed. It just did. Constantly.
And at the **very top**, pulsing with ominous EDM beats, was the Heart of Gasan. A core of molten spite and bad decisions. It looked like a lava disco ball having a breakdown.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Mt. Gasan wasn’t just a mountain.
It was an experience.
It had its own Yelp page, and every review just said “RUN.”
~~~
Ren crash-landed into it like a meteor made of pain and regrets. The Spirit Train ejected him with zero grace, sending him tumbling down a slope covered in gravel, fire, and disappointment.
“WHY DO I KEEP GETTING THROWN INTO STUFF—”
*SMACK.*
He faceplanted into the ash. Crocs squealed. Wig flopped. Dignity? Deceased.
Somewhere above him, thunder clapped. The mountain rumbled. A rock rolled by that looked vaguely judgmental.
“Oh no,” Ren muttered. “It’s sentient.”
And of course it was.
The ground quaked. Boulders levitated. The clouds formed an angry face that blinked at him like it owed him money. Mt. Gasan roared—a sound like volcanic indigestion and unresolved trauma.
A nearby shrub burst into flames, unprovoked.
Then, Karasujin appeared.
Descending from the sky like a war crime with vibes, the storm yokai carried lightning in one hand and—
“Is that a GUN?” Ren yelped.
Karasujin landed with a superhero pose and zero moral restraint. ||Ran outta lightning and patience. It’s your turn now.||
He shoved the gun into Ren’s hands like a divine hot potato.
“Bro, *why—*”
Karasujin leaned in, whispered with the solemn weight of a cursed prophecy:
||Shoot the vibes.||
Then he vanished.
No instructions. No manual. No warranty.
Ren stared at the gun. Then at the mountain.
“…f*ck it.”
He sprinted toward what looked like a maintenance room—carved into the mountain’s ribs like a tumor of bad architecture. Inside: rows and rows of gas cylinders. Dozens. Hundreds. Each one labeled in a different dialect of Threatening. One said “Live Laugh Lava.” Another said “This One's Just Vibes.”
“Time to go nuclear.”
He raised the gun.
Aimed.
Grinned.
BAM.
The bullet slammed into a cylinder with divine force.
Ren braced for the explosion. Fire. Debris. A cinematic blast that would launch him into the end credits.
He imagined a crater. Lava raining from the sky. Glitter ashfall. Cats weeping. A dramatic anime outro playing as the mountain split open and sobbed. Maybe even a dramatic monologue about the power of friendship.
~~~
What actually happened?
psssssssssssst
That’s it.
Just a limp, wet hiss. Like a soda burping. Like a fart from a tired balloon. One of the cylinders tipped over and rolled slowly across the floor.
A single spark flew out. It landed on a leaf. The leaf got slightly warmer. Not even on fire. Just... toasty.
“...are you F*CKING KIDDING ME—”
Ren turned to yell at the air, but the air had left the chat.
Karasujin was gone.
The mountain was laughing.
His Crocs were judging him.
And Mt. Gasan? Still vibing.
He kicked the warm leaf. It flew about three inches before sadly flopping to the floor like the plot relevance of half his trauma arcs.
“Why do I even try?”
Ren whispered, the gun still hot in his hands and his soul lukewarm with disappointment.
A nearby rock gave him a pity crumble.
He looked up at the ceiling—if it even was a ceiling. It was more like the mountain’s uvula. And it was vibrating ominously.
Somewhere, a dramatic violin string snapped.
Ren sat down, cross-legged in the center of the maintenance room, surrounded by useless gas tanks and existential funk.
“I was promised explosions. Fire. Consequences,” he muttered.
What he got was a hiss that sounded like a disappointed dad breathing through his nose.
He picked up one of the gas canisters and shook it.
It meowed.
“Nope.”
He yeeted it out the door.
Another cylinder began singing off-key karaoke in Korean.
“Okay what the actual fu—”
The floor shifted beneath him like it had grown tired of hosting his stupidity. A trapdoor flung open.
Ren fell.
Again.
“THIS IS BULLSHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—”
