The Flour Mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in the ghostly snow that drifted. You trudged uphill, boots crunching through soft white that you soon realized wasn’t snow, but flour. Legends warned of the Dumpling Kings here, enforcers of the Mystic Flour Cookie’s cult of apathy. You dismissed it… until the air thickened with the scent of steaming dough.

It was as soon as you reached the Ivory Pagoda. Four figures sat on clouds, their forms shifting.

"How dare you attempt to enter the temple, while so tainted with the convictions of the beyond?!" The Meat Dumpling King demanded.