Chapter 2: When Legends Fade

We, the people of America, have already lost a hundred times in a row.

That number—one hundred—echoes like a curse through every talk show, every late-night bar. It’s etched into the faces of newscasters, on digital tickers that have replaced the old stock market boards. You can almost feel the country’s backbone buckling with each defeat, every loss a brick removed from the foundation of who we are.

If we lose once more, the system will erase America from existence.

Erase—not bomb, not invade, not conquer. Just... wipe away, like hitting delete on a spreadsheet. The idea terrifies people more than any gunshot ever could. It’s the ultimate vanishing act: one more defeat, and everything we are, every crazy dream and heartbreak, is gone.

Disaster sweeps the heartland; our people suffer and die in uncountable numbers.

From the prairies to the cities, the news is grim. Crops rot in the fields, hurricanes batter the coasts, and sickness moves through towns like a hungry ghost. People light candles in windows, tape old photos to fridges, hoping for a miracle or at least a reprieve.

And now, I stand as America’s final representative in this decisive battle.

The crowd around me is a sea of faces, some hidden behind ballcaps, others streaked with tears. I feel the weight of millions—our hopes, regrets, stubborn pride—resting right between my shoulder blades. There’s no one else. It’s down to me.

I walk slowly onto the stage, the corner of my mouth lifting in a barely noticeable smile.

The stage is not just a platform—it’s as if I’m walking out onto the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl, under the lights, every eye on me, half expecting a miracle, half ready to look away.

Only I still remember the legends of ancient America.

Not the ones from textbooks, but the ones whispered in porch swings at dusk, told around campfires, sung in the back rows of old pickup trucks.

All the heroes of America, I beg you—help your descendant.

I say it in my heart, a prayer for the old ones: cowboys and outlaws, tricksters and saints, anyone who once gave us hope. I clutch the memory of their stories, stubborn and bright.

It’s time to make a glorious comeback.

There’s a wildness in my chest—a feeling like fireworks before the fuse is lit. Maybe, just maybe, the story’s not over yet.

In this battle for national destiny, each country must summon its own legends to fight.

It’s not tanks or nukes—this time, it’s stories that decide everything. Legends, myths, old gods—whoever’s remembered gets to fight. In this arena, history is the ultimate weapon.

But we Americans have forgotten our own history and culture.

All that’s left are fragments—comic book heroes, borrowed myths, scraps of folk songs. The rest is dust, buried under fast food wrappers and reruns.

The stories once passed down for generations have faded from memory.

Where families used to swap tales after Sunday dinner, now folks just scroll through feeds, letting the past slip away one click at a time.

Today in America—

When ships set sail, people pray to Poseidon for protection.

Superstitious sailors mutter Greek prayers under their breath, their tattoos echoing ancient runes instead of eagles or flags. The old sea shanties have been replaced by borrowed melodies from overseas.

When thunder roars and rain pours, they call upon Zeus to show his power.

At backyard barbecues, when a storm rolls in, folks joke about Zeus being angry, forgetting there was ever a thunder spirit born in the Appalachians or a sky god whispered in Iroquois tales.

The people of America are heartbroken, yet powerless to change their fate.

You see it in the droop of their shoulders, the way hope slips from their voices when they talk about the future. Faith feels like an old currency, spent long ago.

The vast land of America has become a laughingstock among nations.

Cable news shows in other languages mock our downfall. Social media memes go viral, showing the once-proud American flag now tattered and forgotten, a punchline to every joke.

All the other countries covet us, eager to fight and seize a share of our spoils.

It’s like we’re the last slice of pizza at a college party—everyone’s got their eye on it, waiting for the moment when no one’s watching to snatch it away.

The proud eagle on the map—our national symbol—is already teetering on the edge.

Some maps have started erasing our borders, shrinking the eagle until it’s barely more than a ghost.

If we lose this last match, America will disappear forever.

No parades, no last-stand speeches, just a silent erasure—like the day the circus packed up and left a small town behind.

Many have already said their goodbyes to loved ones, preparing for death.

Mothers hug their kids a little tighter at night, families gather for what might be the last Thanksgiving, even if it’s only spring. Old-timers write down recipes and phone numbers, hoping someone will remember them in the next world.

In everyone’s eyes, America is doomed to lose.

Even the most stubborn optimists have gone quiet, their flags lowered to half-staff. A nation built on hope now runs on fumes.

Laughter erupts all around, filled with gloating and contempt.

It’s the laughter of the schoolyard bully, the neighbor who always wanted your house to go up for sale. But this time, the jeering is global, and it stings deeper than any wound.

They even openly discuss how to divide America’s resources after our defeat.

Foreign leaders haggle over who gets the wheat fields, the oil rigs, the tech hubs. They draw up maps with new names, already planning to repaint the road signs in strange alphabets.