Chapter 1: A Fall Into Legend

My family's grocery store isn't just a neighborhood fixture—it's a secret gateway to the Age of American Legends, a time when history and myth collide. Tucked between the aisles of potato chips and soda, the store acts as a bridge between eras. One moment you're scanning barcodes, the next, you're brushing shoulders with heroes who never made it into the textbooks. Here, modern goods become treasures of war, and the rules of time are as slippery as the linoleum floors.

The store always had that unmistakable scent—a mix of fresh produce, floor wax, and the faint tang of old freezer coolant. The hum of the chest freezer blended with the squeak of shopping cart wheels and the cheerful jingle of a familiar snack commercial playing over the radio. Sometimes, as I stood at the register, I’d daydream that the bell above the door would ring for someone out of legend instead of Mrs. Rodriguez from next door. I never thought it would actually happen.

My name is Ethan Cole, your average college kid from Maple Heights. During summer break, I was left in charge of the family grocery store, an old brick building on Main Street. One night, after a marathon gaming session, I woke up starving and shuffled upstairs to grab some microwave mac and cheese. Still half-asleep, I started back down—and missed a step. Suddenly, I wasn’t in my store anymore. I landed hard on a canvas floor inside a massive military tent. Maps covered the tables, old books and handwritten battle plans in spidery script were everywhere. A scroll of calligraphy hung in the main hall: "Patience reveals ambition, calmness achieves greatness."

The air in the tent was thick with the smell of dust, candle wax, and something smoky—like a campfire after rain. Shadows from lanterns danced across the faces of men in faded uniforms, boots muddy and worn. Outside, a bugle called, distant and haunting. I felt like I’d crashed a Civil War reenactment, only everything was too vivid, too real, and definitely not a staged event.

I was completely floored. One second I was about to nuke some mac and cheese, the next I was in a different century with no clue how I’d gotten there.

My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear myself think. The mac and cheese container was still warm in my sweaty grip. I blinked hard, desperate for the familiar glare of fluorescent lights and the drone of the soda fridge, but nothing changed. The tent was real—and so was my panic.

As I tried to get my bearings, a voice rang out behind me.

"Who the heck are you, and how did you just fall out of nowhere into my tent?"

The voice was sharp and commanding, the kind that makes you want to stand at attention even if you’re sprawled on the floor. I heard the scrape of a wooden chair and the faint clink of medals on a uniform.

I spun around and came face-to-face with a man in a Civil War-style officer’s hat, feather pen in hand—tall, composed, and sharp-eyed.

He looked like he’d stepped straight off a vintage dollar bill or out of a classic movie—his uniform crisp, brass buttons gleaming in the lantern light. He studied me with the cool curiosity of someone used to solving riddles or sizing up strangers.

I just gawked. "Mr. Hanks?"

My brain was fried, and the only thing I could blurt out was my history professor’s name—who, to be fair, did kind of resemble a young Tom Hanks.

"Hanks? Who’s that? Is that some kind of code? Hanks… ‘home ruler’—that’s a strong name."

The strategist, who could have been the leading man in a classic American war film, twirled his pen, studying me with a mix of suspicion and intrigue. Behind him stood a heroic general in a white jacket and silver helmet, hand on his saber, eyes narrowed but alert.

The guy in the back looked like he belonged on a Mount Rushmore carving—broad-shouldered, jaw set, eyes as hard as steel. He had that silent, watchful presence, the kind of man who’d spot trouble before anyone else.

"No way! Are you really General Grant?"

"That’s right. Alexander Grant. But since when did I get promoted to General?" Grant smiled, his tone both inviting and in command.

His voice was deep and calm, the sort that could steady an army or comfort a kid. He radiated a mix of warmth and authority—like a movie hero you’d trust with your life.

I gawked, then glanced at the general behind him.

"Are you Wyatt Young?"

"You know Wyatt, too?" Grant looked genuinely surprised.

Wyatt sized me up, his hand never leaving his saber. There was a glimmer of humor in his eyes, like he couldn’t wait to see what kind of trouble I’d get into next.

I glanced down at my flip-flops, loud floral shorts, and the microwave meal still in my hand. Then I looked back up at Grant and Wyatt, my head spinning with disbelief.

Suddenly, I was painfully aware of how out-of-place I looked. My toes curled on the cold ground as I tried to hide the mac and cheese behind my back, as if that would help me blend in.

Instead of pinching myself, I dug my nails into my palm, the sting confirming this was no dream. I had actually traveled to the Age of American Legends.

My skin tingled from the pressure. I took in the lantern-lit tent, the smell of leather and old paper, and realized—this was real. I’d just crashed straight into a chapter of American myth.