Chapter 3: The Monkey King Rises

"The battle is about to begin. Please prepare."

A synthesized voice echoes through the arena, as crisp and cold as a computer notification. The air shifts, growing electric as everyone braces for the showdown. The world’s fate hangs on what happens next.

Among the candidate legends, I immediately spot that monkey with the wild face and thunderous mouth.

There he is, half-leaning, half-crouched on the digital screen—fur wild as a high schooler’s first beard, grin as sharp as a razor. He doesn’t look like much compared to the marble-chiseled gods and monsters crowding the screen, but something in me leaps at the sight of him.

That familiar face stirs something deep inside me.

I can almost hear a distant whoop—half carnival, half war cry. It tugs at my memory, reminding me of Fourth of July fireworks, of mischievous childhood adventures, of stories told by candlelight in a Midwest thunderstorm.

Choose him, and America will be unstoppable.

My gut tells me what my brain won’t dare admit. If I reach for that monkey, if I dare to remember, we might have a shot at turning this whole thing around.

All the popular legends on the candidate list are, without exception, foreign.

There’s a parade of legendary figures: Thor with his hammer, Anubis with his jackal’s head, Zeus in all his Olympian glory. But none of them feel like they belong on American soil. They don’t smell of baseball dust or hot dogs sizzling at a county fair.

If I pick a foreign legend, our power will be greatly diminished.

The rules are clear: a borrowed hero is only half as strong, like playing an away game without your own fans in the stands. It’s a shortcut to a sure defeat.

Defeat will be inevitable.

It’s like betting against your own team—no one really believes in you, not even yourself.

"What are you waiting for? Just pick Zeus—he’s the king of the gods! Even weakened, he’s stronger than most."

A frazzled tech bro in a NASA t-shirt yells from the American seats, his voice barely masking panic. A few others nod, desperate for any slim chance, even if it means clinging to someone else’s hero.

"Come on, if you want thunder, pick Thor. Everybody knows that."

A college student in a Marvel hoodie jumps in, clutching a battered comic book as if it’s sacred. She looks like someone who wants magic but is stuck with sequels.

"Why not pick a Norse giant? We’re bound to lose anyway. At least hold out a bit longer so I can call my family one last time."

An old man in a Vietnam vet hat sighs, fumbling for his phone, hoping for one last goodbye. There’s a resigned hush, as if the end is already here.

Many of my fellow Americans have already been driven to madness, weeping and wailing in the stands.

The stadium’s chaos is a mix of grief and hysteria. Some clutch Bibles, others wave old flags, a few sob into each other’s shoulders, their faces pressed close as if hiding from the world’s eyes.

The smell of spilled beer and cheap nachos clings to the air. The jumbotron flickers, casting blue light over faces painted red, white, and blue.

Voices of ridicule and insult from other countries rise and fall.

Taunts in every accent echo around us, like a tidal wave of mockery. Someone launches a paper airplane—on it, scrawled, "Bye Bye, Yankees."

"Hey, you dumb Americans, what are you hesitating for? Don’t waste time in the last round—just pick someone and go lose already!"

A brash voice, thick with a foreign accent, booms from the other side of the arena. Their laughter is sharp and cold, the kind that stings long after the words fade.

A shout rings out from the stands, and the foreign spectators burst into jeers.

They stomp and clap, turning our misery into their own halftime show.

"Do you Americans even have anyone left to choose? Just pick that monkey with the hairy face and thunder god’s mouth. At least put on a show, so you can lose with some flair. Hahaha!"

A group in matching jerseys waves inflatable hammers, taunting us. For them, it’s just good theater—another chance to jeer at the has-beens.

The battle hasn’t even started, but the audience from Sakura Bay is already singing and dancing, performing their national dance right in front of the American section.

The spectacle is jarring—streamers flying, music blaring, their prime minister leading the routine with too much cheer. The American section sits stiff and silent, refusing to be drawn in.

The little Sakura Prime Minister even announces, "If you surrender to our great Sakura Empire now, perhaps our president will grant you third-class citizenship. The men will be sent to the mines, and the women... hehehe..."

He grins, slow and greasy, pointing at us like he’s picking teams for dodgeball—except the losers don’t get a second chance.

The crowd shifts uncomfortably. Some people stand, bristling with indignation, their fists white-knuckled on the seatbacks.

At these words, the American audience erupts in outrage.

People leap to their feet, shouting back every insult they know. Old-timers yell baseball stats, kids flip double birds, someone sings the chorus to "Born in the USA" at the top of their lungs.

A true American may be beaten, but not humiliated.

Even in the darkest hour, pride burns hot. We may lose a hundred times, but we never let them see us bow.

Those with any backbone stand up and hurl curses back, using the deepest arts of American invective.

The curses fly fast and furious, from inventive regional slang to blue-collar poetry. "Kiss my grits!" "Go pound sand!"—every corner of the country represented, united in defiance.

Yet—

Many cowards actually grovel before the little Sakura, begging to become citizens of Sakura Bay.

There are always some who buckle. Heads down, hands out, they plead for mercy. Some even try to trade old sports jerseys or family heirlooms for a ticket out.

Clinging to a last desperate hope, they nod and bow, fawning to the extreme.

They go all in—trading dignity for survival, their voices slick with desperation.

"See? Not all you Americans are pigs."

The Sakura PM grins wider, enjoying every moment.

"Every man for himself—if America has no legends to protect it, only under Amaterasu’s light can we survive. You Americans deserve to perish."

The words cut deep, sharper than any weapon.

Compared to the enemy’s ridicule, the mockery from former compatriots is even more chilling.

Some former neighbors sneer at each other, their accents betraying the regions they’ve left behind. The chill in the air is worse than any winter storm.

But America has lost a hundred times in a row.

The reality is bitter—every defeat chips away at hope, and for some, that means selling out comes easy. Even the bravest find their fists trembling.

Even as fists bleed from being clenched, there is no way to fight back.

The rage is there—raw, bright—but it’s like punching a brick wall. Still, better to stand than kneel, most think.

I tear my gaze from the stands, grit my teeth, my eyes burning with anger.

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. My eyes sting, not from tears, but from the fire of righteous fury.

Who says America has no legends?

I whisper it first, then say it aloud, letting my heart answer for the whole country.

Only I know that unremarkable monkey is the Monkey King.

He’s the one we forgot—the trickster, the troublemaker, the champion who never stays down. Our own wild spirit, hiding in plain sight.

He also bears a mightier title—the Great Sage Equal to Heaven.

That name rings like a bell, ancient and powerful, echoing through the stories my grandma used to tell when thunder shook the house.

Aegean demigod Heracles, Norse Thunder God Thor, Desert Death God Anubis, Sakura Bay’s Yamata no Orochi...

The lineup is a global who’s-who of ancient powerhouses—each one fierce, each one famous, each with a fan club and a hashtag.

These gods all destroy demons or rule heaven and earth. Whether good or evil, their power crushes all others.

It’s like a global championship, every team with its star player. Except ours is sitting on the bench, ignored.

But our Great Sage is best at slaying gods.

He’s the underdog who takes down the giants, the chaos that undoes order, the wild card that makes the game worth watching.

Back then, he stormed the Celestial Palace and turned the Heavenly Court upside down.

He broke all the rules, took on the bosses, and never once asked permission. The stories say he left even the heavens reeling.

He entered the enemy’s formation alone; neither the Jade Emperor nor the Queen Mother could stop him.

One against a hundred thousand, he didn’t flinch. It’s the American dream in a nutshell—odds stacked high, but the fight’s not over.

A hundred thousand heavenly soldiers failed to hold him back. What is there to fear from these minor gods?

Why be scared now, when our own history was always about impossible odds?

Are they even worth a single hair of the Great Sage?

In my chest, I feel something untwist—a knot of fear loosening, replaced by wild hope.

As the countdown begins, all nations shout the names of their mighty gods. Only America is silent.

The stadium is a thunderstorm of voices—every country chanting, banners waving. But our side is hushed, breath held, hearts pounding in dread.

Suddenly, someone in the stands lets a tear fall, their voice trembling:

From the upper deck, a single voice cracks the silence—a middle-aged man in a faded Eagles sweatshirt, shoulders hunched. Tears trace the wrinkles on his cheeks.

"Why is it that when I see that monkey with the hairy face and thunder god’s mouth, I feel something familiar—my heart aches for no reason..."

The words hang in the air, trembling like the last note of a forgotten song. A hush falls, as if the nation is holding its breath.

His words are like thunder, breaking the silence of despair.

The crowd ripples, a wave of memory and longing cresting in the stands. Something stirs—a flicker of hope in eyes gone dull with loss.

"I feel so close to that monkey. Could he really be our American legend?"

Someone else, voice thick with emotion, adds their voice. There’s a vulnerability in their words, a reaching for something lost.

"Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s ever seen that monkey. How could you feel familiar?"

Skepticism rears its head—a younger woman scoffs, her sarcasm a shield against disappointment.

Amidst the commotion, almost no one notices the small ripple spreading here.

But the ripple grows—a quiet murmur, a glance exchanged, a shared memory that refuses to die.

The other representatives have already begun choosing their legends.

On the big screen, the other countries move ahead. The show must go on, whether we’re ready or not.

"Please call out his name and recount his deeds."

The system’s cold voice rings out from above.

Stickland is the first to raise his head and shout arrogantly, "I want to summon the Nine-Tailed Fox!"

He stands tall, voice booming, chest puffed with pride. His accent is clipped, rehearsed—a politician’s dream come true.

Then he loudly recites its exploits.

He speaks as if reading from a teleprompter, every word dripping with borrowed grandeur.

Everyone knows Stickland’s legends were all borrowed from America’s classics and locally altered, but that’s how the system judges it, and no one can do anything.

The Sticks are instead smug, which is infuriating.

They beam, gloating over their loophole victory, while our own stories gather dust.

The Indian representative quickly shouts, "I want our Lord Shiva to show his power!"

He’s breathless with excitement, voice rising in a crescendo as he names Shiva. The crowd from India roars, a sea of saffron flags waving in the stands.

He excitedly recounts tales of Shiva dancing destruction upon his enemies—so fitting for India’s national character.

There’s a fierce pride in his voice—each word a reminder of stories told across generations, alive and burning.

Next comes the Sakura Bay representative: "It’s decided! Yamata no Orochi!"

A hush falls as the name echoes, the crowd from Sakura Bay launching into synchronized applause.

Because America has lost the most, I am the last to choose.

All eyes are on me—the kid who drew the short straw, last in the spelling bee, the one left standing after musical chairs.

And on the candidate list, among the foreign gods, only weak figures like elves and centaurs remain.

The screen flickers, showing a lineup of leftovers—half-forgotten, watered-down creatures with no real bite.

At this moment, I am the focus of the entire arena, countless eyes fixed on me.

It’s a stadium-sized spotlight, hot and blinding. My palms sweat, but I stand my ground.

Some are contemptuous, some pitying, some despairing.

I feel every kind of gaze—scorn, sadness, even that distant, helpless sympathy reserved for lost causes.

I point at the monkey on the screen and declare loudly, "I choose him!"

The words burst out of me, echoing off the rafters, ringing truer than anything I’ve ever said.

"Please call out his name and recount his deeds."

The system repeats the rules.

The air thickens, every second stretching thin as taffy. No way back now.

If you cannot name him or recount his legend, the system will immediately declare defeat.

The stakes couldn’t be higher—every heartbeat a countdown, every second a step closer to oblivion.

Laughter bursts from the stands.

The jeering is instant, merciless, like wolves circling the wounded.

Everyone in the American seats covers their faces and sighs.

A woman in a faded Eagles sweatshirt covers her face, shoulders hunched. A teenager chews his lip raw, eyes darting to the exits. Shame settles over the section like a heavy blanket. You can feel the air leave the room.

Even the last spark of hope is snuffed out.

Resignation ripples through the crowd, like the final notes of a sad country song.

It’s over. We’re doomed.

A sense of collective defeat hangs in the air, the kind you can almost taste—bitter and metallic.

Not only do our own people look at the monkey in confusion—

There’s a sea of blank faces, some blinking, some shaking their heads, everyone searching for a memory just out of reach.

Even foreigners are baffled.

Around the world, broadcasters scramble, translators shrug, viewers at home ask, "Who is this monkey?"

Who is this monkey?

And in that moment, a door opens—a crack in the certainty that all is lost.