An unwelcomed visitor

The night air atop Mount Fuji carried an almost sacred stillness, disturbed only by the occasional swirl of wind curling through the ancient landscape. The moon hung full and resplendent, its silver glow casting elongated shadows across the rocky terrain.

Below, the world slept in oblivion, unaware that something unnatural had begun to unfold in the firmaments above.

At first, it was a mere shimmer—the fabric of space bending like rippling glass. Then, with a soundless shudder, the disturbance twisted in on itself, deepening into a six-foot-long rift of absolute darkness.

The edges of this tear in space pulsed erratically, not with light, but with an inverse glow—a gravitational anomaly that seemed to consume the very concept of illumination.

From within this abyssal fracture in the atmosphere, a small boy stepped out.

His short white hair glowed faintly, each strand catching the moonlight like crystalline fibers, shifting between the hues of silver and unadulterated ivory.

His dark eyes, deep and endless, resembled miniature universes, swirling with unseen galaxies and forgotten stars.

As the torn space repaired itself behind him with a quiet hum, the boy took in his surroundings from the mountain's summit.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Found you, finally."

The wind tousled his hair as he exhaled in what almost sounded like relief.

His attire was modern—a white button-up shirt tucked neatly into black shorts, held up by a pair of suspenders.

The image was that of a child no older than ten, yet his voice carried an eerie confidence that betrayed something far beyond his years.

"It's amazing how much time has passed, but now I've found you again. Khu-khu-khu." He giggled softly, his voice light, yet laden with an unfathomable weight. "Existence has no idea of the disaster I'm about to usher in… Everything that has ever existed, that exists now, and will ever exist will be shaken by this one move of mine. Oh, how I long to see the looks on those twelve guardians' faces when I'm done."

His fingers flexed at his sides. "I just have to hurry and initiate the transference before you die again."

"Is that so?" A voice—deep, composed, and unwavering—cut through the air like tempered steel.

The boy's smirk faltered as he turned his head, his movements slow and deliberate. There, standing amidst the moonlit expanse, was a man.

But… not an ordinary man.

His brown hair was slightly unkempt, yet it did little to take away from his regal bearing. He was clad in a samue (作務衣), a loose-fitting work garment often worn by monks and artisans, its deep navy fabric rippling lightly in the breeze.

Over it, he wore a haori (羽織), a hip-length jacket that exuded both refinement and readiness.

He was barefooted, though.

Around his wrist was a nenju (念珠), a string of aged wooden prayer beads, humming faintly with an energy that seemed to be both protective and binding.

Despite the casual cut of his garments, the presence he carried was anything but casual. It was immovable.

Heavy.

…Ancient.

The boy tilted his head. "I was on high alert, perceiving this realm's entirety… How did you slip past that?"

The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied the boy for a moment before finally speaking.

"Before I send you back, let's introduce ourselves properly."

The boy's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh? And you can understand me? You know about the 'Hallow tongue?"

There was something testing in his tone, as though he expected a certain answer.

"Hallow Tongue?" the man repeated, an eyebrow raised in mild confusion.

The boy's interest piqued. "You're powerful enough to naturally understand me? I suppose this 'Earth' is more interesting than I thought."

He placed a finger on his chin. "And you… Who are you? I can tell you're no mortal."

A pause. The mountain wind whispered between them.

Then, the man answered.

"I am Ōyama-Tsumi-no-Mikoto, the governor and god of the mountains."

The boy's brow lifted slightly in surprise. "A mountain god? Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?"

The boy exhaled softly. "Mountain gods are weaklings, as are all the other deities who govern concepts. Yet, for you to comprehend my language so effortlessly…" His gaze darkened. "That would make you something different. A primordial being, perhaps? Older than this world itself?"

Ōyama-Tsumi-no-Mikoto's expression remained unreadable. "Your judgment is mistaken. I am a resident of this world, and I am not even one of the elders who serve our founder directly."

The boy chuckled. "Is that so? Then you're one very powerful weakling."

Silence prevailed.

"…You didn't give me your name." the god stated.

The boy blinked before smiling again—a deep, knowing grin that seemed to stretch just a little too wide.

"Ah… I didn't, did I?"

Then, with the softest voice, dripping with something unreadable, he whispered:

"You can call me 󠄹󠄹󠄹󠄹󠄹󠄹󠄹󠄹."

Ōyama's face contorted in confusion.

His brows furrowed slightly. He had heard something—a sound, a name, yet his mind refused to grasp it.

"What did you say?" he asked, his tone calm but wary.

The boy tilted his head. "Hm? I said, I am ****"

It happened again. The boy had spoken, yet his words slipped through reality like water through trembling hands. The mountain god's existence simply could not comprehend the name.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled evenly. "I didn't catch that, but whatever it is you want in this world, I deny you."

"Really? On what authority?"

"On my own authority."

Ōyama opened his auburn eyes, fixing them on the arrogant child before him. "Your presence is all over the place. It is toxic. Venomous to this world. I'll have to ask you to leave."

The boy chuckled, shaking his head. "I find it fascinating that you stand before such a presence and yet do not quiver in fear. You cannot understand my name, yet you comprehend everything else I say. I still doubt you're a mere mountain god."

He turned his back to leave. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have serious business to attend to. You know, they might die again, and finding them will be a burden. So… bye."

He took several steps forward—and collided with something unseen.

"Hm?" He muttered, extending his hand to press against the barrier.

It did not yield like glass or metal. Instead, it gave slightly beneath his touch—elastic, bouncy, refusing to let him pass.

He pushed again, watching as the invisible surface rippled like the taut skin of a drum.

Ōyama's voice was calm, absolute. "I have separated us from the rest of the earth. It seems you will not leave until you are defeated."

The boy raised a brow. "Eh? You're suddenly turning to violence?"

He finally took in his surroundings.

A vast expanse of rolling green stretched endlessly, unbroken except for distant mountains and silent hills.

The sky above them was a strange, unmoving twilight—neither day nor night, its colors swirling in shades of deep blue and muted violet.

No roads. No rivers. No life.

Only emptiness, a void of existence carefully constructed for their battle.

The boy smirked. "I commend you for dragging me into this dimension so smoothly."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he casually struck the air.

A deafening CRACK split the silence.

Cracks—thin, jagged—raced across the sky like fractures in a mirror.

The shattering sound did not belong to glass or stone, but to something deeper, something fundamental to reality itself breaking apart under his touch.

He watched as the fractures quickly sealed themselves, the space around them knitting back together.

His grin widened. "Wow! It's sturdy." He flexed his fingers. "And that was 20% of my power. Enough to even destroy this little body of mine."

Ōyama remained still, watching.

The boy's eyes glinted with something sharp, something amused.

"With that light shrug? 20%?" The mountain god thought, yet his expression betrayed nothing.

He said. "I see. I underestimated you."

"Yes, you did."

Then, the ground rumbled.

Not an earthquake, not a tremor—but a deep, resonant pulse, as if the very bones of the world had acknowledged their ruler.

Ōyama took a single step forward, and the pressure in the air thickened, folding in on itself. The invisible wall shuddered at his mere presence.

"But now," his voice was steady, a quiet promise that shook the very air, "I will get serious. And I will send you back home."

A change began.

His brown hair paled, strands turning silver-grey like frost-coated stone. His auburn eyes lost all warmth, becoming a stark, glowing white—the color of snow-capped peaks.

Then, his garments shifted.

The simple, earth-toned robes unraveled, their threads weaving into something new—a flowing coat of deep forest green, its wide sleeves bearing the weight of ancient tradition. The fabric was thick yet moved like mist, settling around him like the embrace of the high mountains.

Over it, a tatami-gusoku took shape—a Heian-era battle armor, sculpted from polished stone and volcanic rock. The breastplate bore the texture of petrified wood, carved with sigils older than any spoken language, glowing faintly with hidden power.

His feet no longer touched the bare earth. Instead, geta formed beneath him—elevated wooden sandals, each step echoing with finality, like a gavel striking fate into place.

Around his neck, the wooden beads he once wore dissolved, replaced by obsidian magatama—a necklace of curved stones. They pulsed with slow, measured energy, drinking in the very essence of the terrain.

And finally, across his shoulders, a sugari-no-onta settled—a straw raincoat, woven not of mere plant fibers but something ethereal. The strands shimmered, shifting between hues of gold and silver, like the light of dawn threading through the peaks of an untouched mountain range.

By the time the transformation settled, Ōyama was no longer simply standing—he was towering.

Not in size, of course.

In presence.

The weight of ages pressed against the child standing before him—not the weight of war or kings, but the crushing eternity of mountains, the silent patience of stone, the unyielding force of nature itself.

The boy stared for a moment, then snickered.

"This is you being serious?" He exhaled through his nose, face-palming. "I suppose I overestimated you after all."

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as if warming up.

"Alright then. I'll play with you for a while. Those two won't die so quickly, and if I make it in time, I'll revive them."

His grin widened, flashing with arrogance.

"So, Mountain god… Show me what you have."

Ōyama did not blink.

His voice, unwavering and absolute, carried no arrogance—only the quiet certainty of a force that had stood since the dawn of the world.

"I, Ōyama-Tsumi-no-Mikoto, shall promptly send you back—without fail."