JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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The Last to Comment Wins
- Thread starter mrsimple
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unlaumy
a person
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Take your time, and when you feel like doing it, you should blep with the most heartfelt blep ever
Shiriru_B
Hi again.
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That only pertains toward idol applications. Also my lawyer said that "if Beef King does become my idol then they must do at least 12 concerts a year, 15 hand shaking events a year, 35 song covers a year, 12 sick day leave, 12 annual leave and they must at least stream daily with a duration of 3-6 hours with karaoke also included in at least one stream per week" - Mr. lawyer.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Shiriru_B
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<(ꐦㅍ _ㅍ)>YOU DARE TALK ABOUT COW ON CAT LOVE
! AN IDOL MUST BE PURE!!! LIKE AN ANGEL IN THE SKY!!!THEY MUST BE UNTOUCHED BY SUCH MORTAL EMOTIONS AND INSTEAD LOVE EVERYONE EQUALLY FROM THEIR HEARTS DESIRE LIKE MADOKA KANAME!!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡edit: Forgot to do my evil/crazy laugh.... AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Also did I say that word before? I'm sure I didn't
Last edited:
ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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I am winning currently.
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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I'm winning currently by doing this
The clock on Hana Yamashita’s dashboard read 3:12 AM as she finally pulled into her driveway, the weary hum of the car engine fading into the silence of the sleeping neighborhood. A soft mist clung to the dim glow of the streetlights, veiling the world in an almost dreamlike haze. She killed the engine and sat still for a moment, staring at the house. A perfectly ordinary house. Perfectly ordinary, except for the seals lining the windows and doors, and the reinforced walls designed to withstand a spiritual incursion.
Home. The word felt foreign. Alien, even. Hana couldn’t recall the last time she’d truly felt safe within these walls.
The day had been long. Not just long—grueling. Balancing her "business" with the gnawing worry about her son, Ichiro, was a herculean task. Connections, intel, smuggling ancient wards across borders—all for a better, safer world, she told herself. It was a good mantra. Comforting, even, if you ignored the irony: her son lived in a safer world he barely saw her in. And Ichiro’s father? He’d been swallowed by that very world years ago. The “incident.” That’s what the official reports called it, anyway.
Hana stepped out of her car, her body weighed down by fatigue and something heavier. She forced herself up the driveway, toward the house. Light spilled from the windows, warm and inviting. Too warm. Too inviting.
The door wasn’t locked.
A single thought shot through her mind. Ichiro never forgets.
Her hand instinctively went to her holster—except it wasn’t there. Of course not. She wasn’t on the clock. She wasn’t supposed to need it at home. She reached for the hidden drawer just inside the entryway instead, slipping off her shoes with practiced efficiency. Her fingers found the cool steel of the pistol her brother Hiroki had given her—a standard-issue weapon capable of handling spiritual disturbances. Not ideal, but it would do.
“Ichiro?” Her voice echoed through the house, swallowed by an unnatural silence. She moved through the rooms on the first floor, her breath steady, her movements sharp. The seals were intact—none of the protective talismans lining the walls or windows were disturbed. But the atmosphere… it felt wrong.
She found nothing. The first floor was clear. Too clear.
Her feet carried her to the staircase before she even realized it. The second floor was cloaked in darkness, the faint light of the streetlamps barely illuminating the corridor. Her heart hammered as she approached Ichiro’s room. The door was ajar, a faint glow spilling through the crack.
Hana pushed it open.
The window was open, curtains fluttering in the cold breeze. The talismans that had protected the room were shredded, their remnants scattered across the floor. Ichiro’s bed was unmade—typical of him—but the room was otherwise empty. No signs of a struggle. No blood. No Ichiro.
The gun slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a metallic clink.
Her knees buckled. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind racing through every possibility, each more horrifying than the last. She clutched at the doorframe, her vision blurring as tears welled in her eyes. The memories came unbidden: Ichiro as a baby, laughing. Ichiro toddling after his father. Ichiro, stubbornly brushing her off with an awkward teenage shrug as she tried to explain why she was always gone.
And now… gone. Taken.
She couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her throat. “Ichiro!”
The word reverberated through the empty room, mocking her. She felt the weight of her failure crash down around her. The son of Hana Yamashita, heir to a family of spiritual guardians, the boy with no sight, no powers—her son, the only piece of her broken family left—was gone. Taken by forces she had spent her life fighting.
But grief was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Her trembling fingers found her phone, and she punched in a number she hadn’t called in years. The line rang twice before it was answered.
“Hana,” came a voice on the other end, rough with sleep but instantly alert. “What is it?”
“It’s Ichiro,” she said, her voice a blade of ice. “He’s been taken.”
A long pause. Then: “By who?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” She was already moving, throwing open a drawer to retrieve an arsenal she prayed she’d never need. She shoved aside talismans, grenades etched with sigils, and a blade wrapped in old cloth. She strapped the gun holster to her side, her voice steady and cold. “But whoever they are, they’ve made the worst mistake of their lives.”
The person on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “You sure you’re ready for this? After last time—”
“Last time doesn’t matter,” Hana snapped. “What matters is Ichiro.”
She ended the call, pocketed the phone, and stepped into the night, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. The mother who had spent years walking the line between protector and hunter was gone.
In her place was something sharper. Something unyielding.
And whoever had taken her son was about to learn that even in a world of spirits and shadows, there were worse things than ghosts.
***
The conference room was cramped and overly modern, the kind of sterile space where bureaucracy pretended to work magic. A long table stretched across the room, flanked by uncomfortable chairs filled with a mix of government officials, hired mercenaries, and local spiritual practitioners. Some represented the Yamashita family’s influence in the Osaka region; others were only here because their strings had been pulled, hard. All sat in tense silence, darting glances toward the woman standing by the window.
Hana Yamashita didn’t sit. She never did at these meetings. Sitting meant engaging, debating, acknowledging someone else’s authority. Instead, she stood, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze fixed on the distant skyline of Osaka. Her stance was calm but brimming with unspoken command. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
“She's just standing there.” A whisper from near the door, hushed but audible in the stillness. “She hasn’t said a word yet. That’s worse, right?”
“I heard she stopped a landslide on Mount Azuma with a single talisman.”
“Mount Azuma? That’s in Fukushima.”
“Exactly.”
Hana turned, her measured footsteps silencing the murmurs. She placed a single photograph on the table, face-down. No one dared flip it over.
“My son. He has been taken.”
The words hung in the air like the distant rumble of thunder. The kind of thunder that promised a storm, not rain.
A government official sitting at the far end of the table fumbled to clear his throat. “Yamashita-san, the regional bureau extends its sympathies. We understand this is a delicate—”
The man froze as her gaze settled on him, sharp as glass. He shrank back into his chair, words drying up like spilled ink in the sun.
Hana’s gaze swept across the room, pinning each attendee in place. “I am not here for sympathy. I am here to remind you all of your obligations. My family has defended these lands for centuries. Osaka thrives because the hills remain quiet. You thrive because of me. And now, the quiet has been broken.”
The room felt heavier, as though the very walls leaned in to listen. No one dared shift in their chair, let alone speak.
A wiry mercenary leaning back in his chair finally broke the silence, confidence oozing from his smirk. “And what if we’re not interested in a missing kid? There’s no profit in—”
His companion elbowed him hard, but the damage was done.
The smirk melted as Hana’s gaze settled on him. The silence around her seemed to stretch thin, brittle.
“I-I mean, of course we’ll help. It’s just—uh—what exactly are we looking for?”
Hana slid a thin envelope across the table. The grizzled leader of the mercenary group opened it, his hand trembling slightly. Inside was a list of names, each one written in immaculate calligraphy. No one asked how she’d obtained the list. No one wanted to know.
“These individuals are connected. Directly or indirectly. You will find them. You will question them. And you will bring my son back.”
“What if they don’t talk?”
“Make them.”
Her tone had the finality of stone, an unspoken weight that crushed any thought of argument.
One of the older spiritualists in the corner spoke up, his voice careful and slow. “Yamashita-san, with all due respect… do you think the main family might have a hand in this? It’s no secret that—”
“The main family is irrelevant. Ichiro is my son. His safety is my responsibility. Not theirs.”
The spiritualist bowed his head, murmuring an apology. Everyone in the room felt the tension humming beneath her composed exterior. The Yamashita family’s intermediary in Osaka, a figure who valued stability above all else, was now a force set in motion. The status quo she cherished had shattered, and the pieces promised to cut.
Hana turned toward the door, signaling the end of the meeting. “You have 48 hours. After that, I will act.”
No one dared speak as she walked out, the room left buzzing with the tension of her ultimatum.
Near the back, the mercenary who had spoken earlier lit a cigarette, his hands shaking. “She’s insane.”
The older spiritualist, still staring at the door, didn’t blink. “She’s not insane. She’s a mother.”
No one argued. They simply sat in silence, haunted by the weight of the storm Hana Yamashita had promised to unleash.
***
Home. The word felt foreign. Alien, even. Hana couldn’t recall the last time she’d truly felt safe within these walls.
The day had been long. Not just long—grueling. Balancing her "business" with the gnawing worry about her son, Ichiro, was a herculean task. Connections, intel, smuggling ancient wards across borders—all for a better, safer world, she told herself. It was a good mantra. Comforting, even, if you ignored the irony: her son lived in a safer world he barely saw her in. And Ichiro’s father? He’d been swallowed by that very world years ago. The “incident.” That’s what the official reports called it, anyway.
Hana stepped out of her car, her body weighed down by fatigue and something heavier. She forced herself up the driveway, toward the house. Light spilled from the windows, warm and inviting. Too warm. Too inviting.
The door wasn’t locked.
A single thought shot through her mind. Ichiro never forgets.
Her hand instinctively went to her holster—except it wasn’t there. Of course not. She wasn’t on the clock. She wasn’t supposed to need it at home. She reached for the hidden drawer just inside the entryway instead, slipping off her shoes with practiced efficiency. Her fingers found the cool steel of the pistol her brother Hiroki had given her—a standard-issue weapon capable of handling spiritual disturbances. Not ideal, but it would do.
“Ichiro?” Her voice echoed through the house, swallowed by an unnatural silence. She moved through the rooms on the first floor, her breath steady, her movements sharp. The seals were intact—none of the protective talismans lining the walls or windows were disturbed. But the atmosphere… it felt wrong.
She found nothing. The first floor was clear. Too clear.
Her feet carried her to the staircase before she even realized it. The second floor was cloaked in darkness, the faint light of the streetlamps barely illuminating the corridor. Her heart hammered as she approached Ichiro’s room. The door was ajar, a faint glow spilling through the crack.
Hana pushed it open.
The window was open, curtains fluttering in the cold breeze. The talismans that had protected the room were shredded, their remnants scattered across the floor. Ichiro’s bed was unmade—typical of him—but the room was otherwise empty. No signs of a struggle. No blood. No Ichiro.
The gun slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a metallic clink.
Her knees buckled. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind racing through every possibility, each more horrifying than the last. She clutched at the doorframe, her vision blurring as tears welled in her eyes. The memories came unbidden: Ichiro as a baby, laughing. Ichiro toddling after his father. Ichiro, stubbornly brushing her off with an awkward teenage shrug as she tried to explain why she was always gone.
And now… gone. Taken.
She couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her throat. “Ichiro!”
The word reverberated through the empty room, mocking her. She felt the weight of her failure crash down around her. The son of Hana Yamashita, heir to a family of spiritual guardians, the boy with no sight, no powers—her son, the only piece of her broken family left—was gone. Taken by forces she had spent her life fighting.
But grief was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Her trembling fingers found her phone, and she punched in a number she hadn’t called in years. The line rang twice before it was answered.
“Hana,” came a voice on the other end, rough with sleep but instantly alert. “What is it?”
“It’s Ichiro,” she said, her voice a blade of ice. “He’s been taken.”
A long pause. Then: “By who?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” She was already moving, throwing open a drawer to retrieve an arsenal she prayed she’d never need. She shoved aside talismans, grenades etched with sigils, and a blade wrapped in old cloth. She strapped the gun holster to her side, her voice steady and cold. “But whoever they are, they’ve made the worst mistake of their lives.”
The person on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “You sure you’re ready for this? After last time—”
“Last time doesn’t matter,” Hana snapped. “What matters is Ichiro.”
She ended the call, pocketed the phone, and stepped into the night, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. The mother who had spent years walking the line between protector and hunter was gone.
In her place was something sharper. Something unyielding.
And whoever had taken her son was about to learn that even in a world of spirits and shadows, there were worse things than ghosts.
***
The conference room was cramped and overly modern, the kind of sterile space where bureaucracy pretended to work magic. A long table stretched across the room, flanked by uncomfortable chairs filled with a mix of government officials, hired mercenaries, and local spiritual practitioners. Some represented the Yamashita family’s influence in the Osaka region; others were only here because their strings had been pulled, hard. All sat in tense silence, darting glances toward the woman standing by the window.
Hana Yamashita didn’t sit. She never did at these meetings. Sitting meant engaging, debating, acknowledging someone else’s authority. Instead, she stood, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze fixed on the distant skyline of Osaka. Her stance was calm but brimming with unspoken command. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
“She's just standing there.” A whisper from near the door, hushed but audible in the stillness. “She hasn’t said a word yet. That’s worse, right?”
“I heard she stopped a landslide on Mount Azuma with a single talisman.”
“Mount Azuma? That’s in Fukushima.”
“Exactly.”
Hana turned, her measured footsteps silencing the murmurs. She placed a single photograph on the table, face-down. No one dared flip it over.
“My son. He has been taken.”
The words hung in the air like the distant rumble of thunder. The kind of thunder that promised a storm, not rain.
A government official sitting at the far end of the table fumbled to clear his throat. “Yamashita-san, the regional bureau extends its sympathies. We understand this is a delicate—”
The man froze as her gaze settled on him, sharp as glass. He shrank back into his chair, words drying up like spilled ink in the sun.
Hana’s gaze swept across the room, pinning each attendee in place. “I am not here for sympathy. I am here to remind you all of your obligations. My family has defended these lands for centuries. Osaka thrives because the hills remain quiet. You thrive because of me. And now, the quiet has been broken.”
The room felt heavier, as though the very walls leaned in to listen. No one dared shift in their chair, let alone speak.
A wiry mercenary leaning back in his chair finally broke the silence, confidence oozing from his smirk. “And what if we’re not interested in a missing kid? There’s no profit in—”
His companion elbowed him hard, but the damage was done.
The smirk melted as Hana’s gaze settled on him. The silence around her seemed to stretch thin, brittle.
“I-I mean, of course we’ll help. It’s just—uh—what exactly are we looking for?”
Hana slid a thin envelope across the table. The grizzled leader of the mercenary group opened it, his hand trembling slightly. Inside was a list of names, each one written in immaculate calligraphy. No one asked how she’d obtained the list. No one wanted to know.
“These individuals are connected. Directly or indirectly. You will find them. You will question them. And you will bring my son back.”
“What if they don’t talk?”
“Make them.”
Her tone had the finality of stone, an unspoken weight that crushed any thought of argument.
One of the older spiritualists in the corner spoke up, his voice careful and slow. “Yamashita-san, with all due respect… do you think the main family might have a hand in this? It’s no secret that—”
“The main family is irrelevant. Ichiro is my son. His safety is my responsibility. Not theirs.”
The spiritualist bowed his head, murmuring an apology. Everyone in the room felt the tension humming beneath her composed exterior. The Yamashita family’s intermediary in Osaka, a figure who valued stability above all else, was now a force set in motion. The status quo she cherished had shattered, and the pieces promised to cut.
Hana turned toward the door, signaling the end of the meeting. “You have 48 hours. After that, I will act.”
No one dared speak as she walked out, the room left buzzing with the tension of her ultimatum.
Near the back, the mercenary who had spoken earlier lit a cigarette, his hands shaking. “She’s insane.”
The older spiritualist, still staring at the door, didn’t blink. “She’s not insane. She’s a mother.”
No one argued. They simply sat in silence, haunted by the weight of the storm Hana Yamashita had promised to unleash.
***
ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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I am currently winning.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Shiriru_B
Hi again.
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Hey Tempokai read this novel, I think I'm going crazy but this is cursed isn't it....
https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1474880-disciple-elrik/chapter/1474883/
guys wtf is this prologue, why did they say that
edit: I felt like I got duped reading this (╬▔皿▔)╯
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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Hey Tempokai read this novel, I think I'm going crazy but this is cursed isn't it....
https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1474880-disciple-elrik/chapter/1474883/
guys wtf is this prologue, why did they say that
edit: I felt like I got duped reading this (╬▔皿▔)╯
Shiriru_B
Hi again.
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- Points
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Literally my exact expression, that was so cursed, I did not want to see that
edit: I actually liked that cover too (ꐦㅍ _ㅍ)
Shiriru_B
Hi again.
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(╥‸╥) wah!
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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