Chapter 2: All In, No Way Out

Back in the S1 season, Silver Hollow got crushed. Eighty percent of their energy—gone. No energy, no training, no future. The old guard dropped one by one. By S2, the team was mostly middle-aged. Now, in S3, even that’s rare. The people fighting for Silver Hollow are mostly in their twenties and thirties. They can barely pronounce "Sword Control," let alone summon any ancient champions.

It’s tragic—whole generations erased, not by plague or famine, but by defeat and hopelessness. You look around and see nothing but youth: faces scrubbed clean, eyes wide and scared, some with patches of stubble or messy ponytails, like they just left a college tailgate and stumbled into the apocalypse. Their hands shake as they grip relics they barely understand, whispering words they hope will save them, just this once.

Meanwhile, the Sunrise Islands crew are singing and dancing—if you can call it that. The scene is wild, almost creepy—like a haunted Mardi Gras, all strange moves and sharp, hypnotic rhythms that pull everyone’s gaze.

“Silver Hollow, you’re toast this year.”

“Our Emperor says no surrenders.”

“Hope you hang in there a while, otherwise this’ll be boring.”

“Here’s a tip: your women can always surrender.”

As soon as they start, Silver Hollow’s people are furious. But everyone knows: the Sunrise Islands have always wanted to wipe Silver Hollow out. Now, we can barely protect ourselves. The competition’s about to kick off. Last one standing wins. Power surges everywhere—golden swords, magic staffs, ancient chants. Me? I’m just trying to stay behind the beautiful order leader, hanging onto whatever sense of safety I can. I’m nobody here—not even cannon fodder. But with so few fighters left, even I, a menial disciple, have been teleported in. My stomach dropped. This was no video game—there were no extra lives, no respawns. Just me, a broom, and a death wish.

It’s like getting drafted to the Super Bowl as the waterboy and finding yourself in the starting lineup. I stick close to the group, heart pounding, feeling about as out of place as a rodeo clown at a Wall Street gala.

“Derek, stay behind us.”

The beautiful order leader’s voice is calm but iron-strong. She glances at me, steady and sure. I nod—rookie cop style, when the chief says don’t do anything dumb. My hands twitch behind my back, gripping my faded janitor’s jacket, wishing for something better than a broom.