Chapter 4: Memory and Betrayal

I take a deep breath, just about to speak—

My lungs fill with the stale air of the arena, thick with anticipation and old popcorn. My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat that drowns out the jeers.

When suddenly, a foreign child’s voice rings out before me.

It’s sharp, high, and eager, cutting through the tension like a starter’s pistol.

"I—I know this monkey!"

All eyes turn, curiosity momentarily eclipsing despair. The crowd hushes, leaning forward.

His words cause a stir.

A ripple moves through the stands—skepticism, then intrigue. Even the foreign delegations pause their celebrations.

At first, no one pays attention.

It’s just a kid, after all—barely tall enough to see over the rail.

Until the blond, blue-eyed boy takes a yellowed book from his bag.

He stands on tiptoes, holding the tattered relic like a holy grail. His cheeks flush with pride, hair glinting under the lights.

He holds it high for all to see, and the system projects it onto the big screen.

Suddenly, the book is larger than life—cracks and creases clear as day, the kind of artifact you’d expect to see behind glass in a Smithsonian back room.

The book is bound in the style of an old American folktale, very old.

The cover’s faded, corners worn soft as felt, and the title almost rubbed out by time.

Because it was poorly preserved, most pages are missing; it’s barely a complete book.

Someone in the front row mutters, "That thing looks like it survived the Civil War and then some."

On the worn cover, a monkey is faintly visible, setting horses free.

The image is crude but vivid—a monkey, wild-eyed and jubilant, brandishing a staff and shooing horses into the wild. For a moment, the arena is silent, spellbound by the forgotten art.

It’s exactly the same as the monkey in the candidate list.

A gasp runs through the Americans—a flicker of recognition, a hint of something long-buried stirring to life.

"Heh, I found this in a warehouse. This monkey even has older and younger brothers..."

The boy’s accent is foreign, but his pride is unmistakable. He flips a page, grinning as if he’s unveiling a magic trick.

The child introduces it with pride.

His words are met with a chorus of murmurs—admiration, resentment, and something close to awe.

Meanwhile, all of America seethes with anger.

It’s not just envy—it’s the sting of history being stolen, memories ripped away. The crowd shifts, angry whispers rising like a summer storm.

An old man with white hair and glasses suddenly stands up, gritting his teeth:

His voice trembles with fury, cane rattling against the seat. He’s got the air of a retired professor, the kind who never let a fact go unchallenged.

"I may not remember the book’s name, but from the style, it’s definitely a precious 19th-century woodblock edition. You’re destroying a cultural relic!"

There’s outrage in his words—a grief for what was lost, not just to time but to carelessness.

A priceless classic recording America’s brilliance has fallen into foreign hands—

There’s a collective wince—an old ache, as if a family photo album was tossed in the trash.

Treated as trash, discarded at will.

It’s like finding your grandma’s recipe box in a garage sale overseas, the handwriting faded, the memories sold for a dollar.

How can one’s heart not ache?

The pain is universal, shared by everyone who ever loved a story too much to let it go.

But the relics they looted from America are far more than this one.

The crowd remembers—statues in European museums, rare baseball cards in private vaults, jazz records scratched and sold at auction overseas.

Over a hundred years ago—

The bitterness runs deep. The old-timers mutter about the Gilded Age, about wars and deals that stripped the country of more than just riches.

If they hadn’t plundered our treasures, we would not have forgotten our legends.

It’s a loss that echoes—every story gone is a piece of ourselves missing. The crowd grows restless, some shaking their heads in regret.

Nor would we be facing national extinction today.

A sense of causality, the feeling that fate could have been different, if only...

The old man’s outrage is ignored; instead, the child’s parents mock:

Their laughter is cold, a sound sharper than the coldest January wind in Chicago.

"You Americans can’t even keep your ancestors’ things."

It’s a slap in the face, the kind that stings long after the sound fades.

"You have to be reminded of your own myths by us Westerners. Who should be ashamed?"

They smirk, taking credit for keeping our stories alive—never mind the theft.

"Come, child, tell these pitiful Americans—what’s this monkey’s name?"

The arena grows tense, every heartbeat straining for the answer.

The boy says in a deliberately odd accent, "The book says this monkey is called... Stable Master."

The pronunciation is off, the words strange on his tongue, but the meaning hits hard—a joke with a jagged edge.

People from other countries remain confused, asking what Stable Master means.

Some whisper translations, others just shake their heads, amused by the apparent absurdity.

But some Americans immediately understand, their ears burning with shame.

A low murmur ripples through the crowd. Old memories, once sweet, now bitter.

"Stable Master—that’s a lowly stable official in the old American legends, as low as you can get."

The explanation is flat, the shame inescapable. It’s like being told your superhero was just the janitor all along.

Sakura Bay, also part of the Pacific culture, ruthlessly exposes this in public.

Their commentator takes to the mic, gloating. "See? Even your legends are second-rate!"

The whole arena erupts in laughter.

The laughter is deafening—an avalanche of mockery, drowning out every last scrap of pride.

They boast that if Stable Master dares take the stage, Yamata no Orochi will perform a monkey brain show for everyone.

The threat is tasteless, the kind of cruelty that makes your skin crawl. The American crowd shifts, uncomfortable, rage simmering beneath the surface.

An American child stands up angrily, his face flushed, retorting:

His voice breaks, but the fire in his words is pure. He shakes his fist, tears shining in his eyes.

"Doesn’t he have brothers? Bring them out, and they’ll beat your legends black and blue!"

His courage sparks a ripple—kids nearby stand a little taller, hope flickering in their faces.

The foreign boy laughs again.

He tears a page from the tattered book and shows it off.

His hands are careless, the page torn with a flourish—a showman’s cruelty.

It depicts a silly, lovable black pig wielding a rake.

The illustration is cartoonish, yet oddly charming—a pig with a mischievous grin, brandishing a rake like a prizefighter.

"That monkey’s so-called younger brother is a black pig!"

The crowd howls—some with laughter, others with outrage. The pig is instantly meme-worthy, and within seconds, social media feeds overflow with jokes and jabs.

The laughter in the arena grows even louder.

It’s relentless, the kind of laughter that shakes the bleachers and turns even friends into strangers.

Someone jeers, "Why are all America’s legends weird animals—monkeys, black pigs? Is your mythology a zoo?"

The insult lands like a slap. Even some Americans flinch, cheeks burning, unable to meet each other’s eyes.

Hearing this, all American faces turn ashen.

A wave of shame ripples through the stands. The insult is more than words—it’s the erasure of dignity, a wound that won’t heal.

National dignity is trampled to dust.

Old-timers weep quietly; the young glare, fists clenched. It’s the heartbreak of a family secret revealed for the world to mock.

Under this crushing humiliation, hundreds of millions of Americans are seething with emotion.

The stadium becomes a pressure cooker, emotions bubbling over. Anger, shame, stubborn hope—all fighting for a way out.

Some shout, swearing to fight to the end.

Their voices are raw, desperate—vows made to the wind, but meant from the depths of the soul.

Some curse me as a traitor, damning my ancestors for eighteen generations.

Accusations fly, bitterness spreading like wildfire. In times like these, everyone looks for someone to blame.

Even white-haired elders cover their faces and weep, kneeling to the heavens.

The weight of history is too much to bear. In the old country, some would’ve lit candles, said prayers—now, they simply weep for what’s lost.

American legends, where are you now?

The question lingers, heavy and unanswered.

Amid the chaos, the system coldly asks me again, "Who is he?"

The voice is devoid of sympathy, as mechanical as ever. But its demand cuts through the noise—a reminder that the story’s not over yet.

Only if I answer does it count.

My moment has come, and the world holds its breath.

But at this moment, I am no longer the focus—

The drama in the stands is bigger than any one person, a living, breathing testament to a country’s struggle.

A living drama unfolds in the stands:

It’s America at its rawest—fighting, crying, hoping, failing, refusing to go down without a fight.

Mockery, despair, struggle, rage... just one last push from collapse.

The breaking point is close; you can feel the tension humming, the sense that one spark could light the powder keg.

I ignore the noise and speak, clear and resolute:

I draw in a deep breath, let the world’s noise wash over me, and finally let my voice ring out true.

"His name is the Monkey King!"

The words crackle through the arena, loud and defiant. For the first time, there’s a note of pride—of remembrance.

My voice is loud, echoing through the system into every corner of the world, into every ear.

It’s as if every radio, every phone, every television is tuned to my frequency. America listens. The world listens.

But no one cares.

For a moment, it seems like my courage has gone unnoticed—a pebble tossed into a vast, indifferent ocean.

A surge of blood rises, and I press on:

But something in me refuses to give up. My cheeks flush with adrenaline, and my voice grows stronger.

"He is the Trickster, the one who wears the golden circlet."

The name brings a shiver of recognition to a few faces, a flicker of something old and powerful.

"He is the Handsome Monkey King of Flower Mountain."

The words roll off my tongue like a prayer—half myth, half memory.

"He is the ancestor of ten thousand legends, the boneless relic."

It feels like I’m opening a door that’s been shut for generations, letting the light spill in.

"He is the disciple of the Old Sage."

The title rings true, a nod to every wandering teacher, every wise old storyteller who ever shaped a life.

"He is the Fighting Spirit of the Western Sky."

A hush falls, the words weaving a spell over the crowd.

"He is the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, who made havoc in the Heavenly Palace..."

With each title, the air thickens—an electricity that buzzes on the skin.

...

My voice grows louder, like a great bell ringing through the heavens.

It’s a crescendo, a rallying cry that demands to be heard.

As I finish speaking—

A white rainbow arcs through the clouds, thunder cracks on a clear day, and a brief geomagnetic storm plunges all the world’s electronics into darkness for a second.

Screens flicker, lights sputter, the stadium plunged into a heartbeat of night. Even the satellites above blink, as if the world itself pauses to listen.

Six billion people look up in terror.

In living rooms and kitchens, in factories and subway tunnels, people gasp and clutch their loved ones, every soul united by a single moment of awe.

At that moment, everyone seems to realize something at once.

A ripple of realization runs around the globe—something big has changed, something old has woken.

"Could it be—an American legend has manifested?"

The question is whispered on every news channel, in every language. Skeptics turn to believers, at least for a second.

"No, this is what the ancients called an omen. In America’s old stories, it appears only at the most extraordinary moments."

Scholars scramble for forgotten texts, digging through digital archives for the meaning of what just happened.

"Just reciting his titles brings forth such a sign. Is that monkey truly a mighty being?"

Doubt turns to fear, and then to hope. For the first time, the world wonders if America still has magic left.

"Old John, did we offend something we shouldn’t have..."

An old man in the stands crosses himself, muttering a prayer under his breath.

The world falls silent, time seems to freeze.

The tension is palpable—no one moves, no one dares to breathe too loud.

After a moment, all eyes return to me—

My heart pounds as the world’s gaze settles once more on me, expectation and dread mingling.

Because I have not finished.

I steady myself, feeling the hopes of a nation resting in my chest.

Suppressing my turbulent emotions, I steady myself, the corners of my mouth rising unconsciously.

A tiny, stubborn smile—one that says, "I’m not done yet."

I declare passionately, "And we Americans all affectionately call him—Monkey Bro."

The nickname falls like a thunderclap, rolling through the crowd. It’s simple, direct, unmistakably American—a term of endearment, a bond unbroken.

This sentence, to the ears of Americans—

It’s as if a dam breaks—a wave of memory, pride, and raw emotion surging through every heart.

Is like thunder shaking the heavens.

The crowd explodes in cheers, some people sobbing openly, others throwing their arms around strangers, united by a name they’d almost forgotten.

Countless hearts resonate violently at that moment, stirred by these words.

Old men clap strangers on the back, moms lift their kids onto their shoulders, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the Fourth of July—hope, wild and loud, everywhere at once.

Old scars ache, old dreams ignite. For a second, every American remembers what it means to believe in legends.

Some even shed tears without knowing why.

Grown men cry without shame, women laugh through their tears, kids look up in awe.

They only feel that the name ‘Monkey Bro’ is incomparably intimate, familiar, and natural.

It’s the kind of name you’d give your best friend, your wildest teammate, the guy you’d follow into trouble and back.

As if everyone has called him that countless times before.

A thousand childhood memories surface—a stuffed animal named Bro, a doodle in the back of a notebook, a voice in a late-night cartoon.

Some compatriots seem to recall something—their eyes flickering between clarity and confusion.

You can see it—the struggle to remember, the joy when it clicks. The legend is coming back to life.

I fall silent, but voices ring out across the nation:

Suddenly, a chorus of stories bursts forth—each one echoing from the past, weaving together into a living tapestry of legend.

"The Sage calls him Wild Monkey."

A retired teacher in Iowa wipes his eyes, remembering bedtime tales from his grandmother.

"Zane calls him brother."

A kid in Arizona grins, a baseball mitt in his lap, feeling the old magic.

"Tom is his master."

A faded photograph from Mississippi—a boy and a monkey carved into a treehouse wall.

"The Emperor scolds him Monkey Head."

In Chinatown, elders nod knowingly, the nickname spoken with equal parts affection and exasperation.

"Pigsy calls him Big Bro."

A group of friends in Queens, New York, raise their sodas, toasting the name with laughter.

"The Buddha calls him Demon Monkey."

A yoga instructor in Portland closes her eyes, feeling the weight of stories passed down.

...

All of us break out in goosebumps.

It’s as if electricity dances across the nation, each story lighting another spark.

Stories, both strange and familiar, surge in our minds.

Like a river breaking free from a dam, the stories spill out, wild and free.

"I want the sky never again to block my eyes; I want the earth never again to bury my heart."

A dreamer’s anthem, sung in every key.

"In the beginning of chaos, there was no surname. To break ignorance, one must become the Monkey King."

It’s a riddle, a secret handed down from father to son, mother to daughter.

"If I become a legend, there will be no demons in the world. If I become a demon, what can legends do to me?"

A question for the ages, a dare to the universe itself.

"If the sky oppresses me, I will split the sky; if the earth blocks me, I will shatter the earth..."

The words become a chant, a heartbeat, a promise.

Thousands of voices merge, like a heavenly chorus.

The sound swells, rising over every border, drowning out every voice of doubt.

In the darkness, something stirs, as if about to break free.

You can feel it—a legend waking up, ready to shake the world.

Not just me—in this moment, all of us are praising the Great Sage’s name.

Every American, every person who ever dreamed of more, joins in. For the first time in a hundred losses, hope is alive again.

The system asks again: "Please recount his deeds."

The voice is softer now, almost reverent—ready for the story to begin.