Chapter 5: The Stand and the Summoning

"The Monkey King, he..."

I have just begun, when I am rudely interrupted by impatient voices behind me.

A commotion breaks out—a few restless souls can’t take the tension. Feet shuffle, voices crack, the crowd’s unity falters.

Many Americans suddenly stand up, restless.

Some can’t bear the uncertainty, others are ready to jump ship, and a few just want to be anywhere but here.

Some wear shame on their faces, but more act as if this is only natural.

You can see the conflict—some have guilt, others rationalize, "I’m just doing what I must."

One stammers, "I—I want to change my nationality."

His voice is small, almost apologetic. The words hang in the air like a bad smell.

"Me too."

More voices join in, a tide of resignation rising.

Soon, more voices join in.

It’s a domino effect—once a few step forward, others follow, like lemmings over a cliff.

After exchanging glances, four people leave the American seats—

The movement is awkward, rushed. They clutch their bags, some glancing back, others not daring to meet anyone’s eyes.

One goes to Beaconland, three to Sakura Bay’s seats.

Each is swallowed by their new crowd—welcomed, but never quite accepted.

Once there, they immediately grovel, eager to prove their loyalty.

The display is humiliating—like kids picked last for dodgeball, willing to do anything to fit in.

The rest remain anxious, torn by inner conflict.

Some wring their hands, sweat trickling down their brows. You can almost hear their hearts breaking.

Someone in the crowd curses:

A broad-shouldered woman in a Detroit Lions jersey stands up, her voice ringing with righteous fury.

"You traitors, even now you want to change nationality? Is being American so shameful?"

The shame is palpable, the anger righteous—she won’t let them off easy.

"Nonsense. Besides knowing the Great Sage, what else do you know? What feats does this monkey have? What skills? The other side has Shiva and Yamata no Orochi. You want me to risk my life with you? Dream on!"

A bespectacled accountant snaps back, his fear wrapped in reason. Survival, for him, is worth more than pride.

The man is left speechless, face red with anger.

The crowd seethes, the lines drawn deeper than ever before.

He has a point.

Doubt creeps in—without proof, hope is just a prayer.

If we lose, all Americans will vanish in an instant.

It’s an all-or-nothing gamble—the kind of risk few are brave enough to take.

Not everyone has the courage to risk everything.

It’s easy to talk big—harder to stare extinction in the face and not blink.

Survival is human instinct.

At the end of the day, the urge to live trumps almost everything else.

But to survive by betraying your own is the lowest of the low.

Still, some lines shouldn’t be crossed, no matter the stakes.

As the saying goes, "When the chips are down, everyone shows their true colors."

Someone mutters the phrase, a reminder that when times get tough, even friends can turn on you.

The ugliness of human nature is laid bare.

It’s a grim truth—one that hurts, but has to be faced.

I look at these people and, instead of anger, I laugh.

A bitter, wry chuckle escapes me—sometimes it’s better to let the dead weight go.

A blessing in disguise—their departure is actually a good thing.

The group feels lighter, leaner—those left behind are the ones who matter.

"Everyone will have thirty seconds to choose whether to change nationality."

I announce it with the gravity of a judge—no more delays, no more wavering.

"After thirty seconds, I will recount the Monkey King’s deeds. Whoever remains will still be a descendant of America."

The line is drawn in the sand. No one crosses back once the story begins.

I give everyone thirty seconds to decide.

The stadium clock ticks down, every second thudding louder than the last. Somewhere, a kid drops his soda, and it splashes unnoticed at his feet.

After that, your nationality cannot change. We will live or die with America.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

"We can’t win. Their legends are too strong, and that monkey doesn’t seem to have any skills. How can he compete? But even if I die, I want to die on American soil."

A grizzled trucker speaks up, voice trembling but proud. He clutches his daughter’s hand, both eyes shining with stubborn defiance.

"No, I feel he’s different from the other legends. I can’t say why, but his name must mean something. I believe in the Great Sage."

A young woman in a hijab nods, her faith unwavering. She whispers the name as if it’s a secret password to another world.

"Hahaha, you idiots actually believe a stable monkey can turn the tide? Then stay here and wait for death. I’m not dying with you."

A former classmate jeers, already edging toward the exit. His laughter is empty, his eyes haunted.

"Get lost! It’s bad luck to be around traitors like you."

A teenager with blue hair throws a defiant glare, refusing to give an inch.

"Surviving makes you a traitor? What a bunch of fools."

A mother with three kids clings to her suitcase, torn between fear and shame.

In seconds, the American camp splits in two.

The divide is clear—those who stay, and those who run. The tension is thick, the air charged with heartbreak and hope.

Both the steadfast and the spineless are few; most are ordinary people, struggling on the edge between life and death, wavering in these thirty seconds.

A coin flip decides some fates, a whispered prayer others. It’s the hardest decision anyone will ever make.

Until the very last moment, some grit their teeth and return to their seats.

You can see the decision in their eyes—the moment courage overcomes fear.

After thirty seconds, the American seats are a third emptier.

The losses sting, but those who remain sit taller, their resolve hardening into steel.

The remaining compatriots stare at me with burning hope in their eyes.

It’s the kind of hope that lights revolutions, the hope that once built a country out of wild dreams and sweat.

They will remain American to the end.

Their loyalty is unbreakable—the kind that survives even the darkest night.

My eyes grow hot. I solemnly declare, "Everyone, I will not let you lose—nor will Monkey Bro."

The words are a vow—a blood oath, a promise to every ancestor who ever dared to dream.

I look up, my voice ringing out:

It echoes off the rafters, filling the silent spaces with faith.

"Legend has it that in the Eastern lands, a spirit stone gave birth to a monkey. This monkey dove through the waterfall, became king, journeyed thousands of miles to seek immortality, explored the Dragon Palace for treasures, rewrote the Book of Life and Death in the underworld, made havoc in Heaven, stole the peaches of immortality..."

The story spills out, wild and unstoppable. For every line, the air shimmers, the legend painting itself in golden light.

Everyone listens, spellbound.

You could hear a pin drop—every word drawing the crowd deeper, the myth working its magic.

As I speak, a monkey appears in midair.

He bursts into the air like a halftime show gone wild—golden armor catching the spotlights, his staff spinning like a drum major’s baton at the Rose Parade.

At first, it’s a shimmer, then a form—fur blazing gold, eyes sharp and bright as the noonday sun.

He wears a feathered golden crown, a resplendent cloak on his shoulders.

The crown catches the light, casting rainbows over the crowd, the cloak swirling like a tornado in the wind.

Golden chainmail armor, a red brocade skirt tied with a golden silk belt.

The chainmail glitters, the skirt sways, every detail rich with memory and meaning.

On his feet are cloud-walking shoes; in his hand, the golden-hooped staff.

He spins the staff with effortless swagger, each movement a dance of power and grace.

His eyes are bright—three parts wildness, seven parts majesty.

The look in his eyes is both challenge and invitation—a dare to anyone who doubts.

No visible divine power, yet his aura is overwhelming.

He stands on the wind, unbowed, the very air charged with his presence.

All present gasp in awe.

The stadium shakes with the force of their wonder—some clutch their hearts, others drop to their knees.

The shock is so great that even their hearts skip a beat.

You can feel the pulse of the crowd—a single, shared heartbeat that skips, then surges.

All Americans stare in a daze at that strangely familiar figure, as if turned to stone.

For a moment, time stands still—every gaze locked on the figure of the Monkey King, memories long buried rushing back.

At that moment, their eyes light up.

The spark is unmistakable—a light that grows and spreads, setting every soul ablaze with belief.

This is our American legend—

It’s more than a story—it’s the spirit that built a nation out of nothing, the fire that refuses to die.

The Handsome Monkey King of Flower Mountain.

A legend that belongs to every backyard, every city street, every open highway.

The very monkey who trampled the Emperor’s throne, rewrote fate with a wave, forged fiery eyes in the Old Sage’s furnace, caused chaos at the Celestial Banquet.

Every deed is more than myth—it’s a blueprint for rebellion, a manifesto of hope.

And the Fighting Spirit who escorted Tom through eighty-one tribulations.

Tom—a stand-in for every American kid, every dreamer, every underdog who ever needed a friend to face the world’s trials.

He is unrestrained, he hates evil as an enemy.

He fights for what’s right, never backs down, no matter the odds.

He is the great hero in the hearts of all Americans.

There’s not a soul untouched—every heart beats faster, every eye shines brighter.

He lives in the childhood of every American kid, giving us the courage to resist.

He’s the voice that says, "Get back up," the hand that helps you leap the fence when no one else will.

His image is etched deep in our hearts—he is America’s strongest cultural icon.

More than a mascot, more than a myth—he is the soul of a nation that refuses to give up.

Hundreds of years ago, storytellers told his tale; he was in the saloons and vaudeville halls.

His story was shared in smoky bars, across dusty front porches, in the laughter of children playing in empty lots.

A hundred years ago, he was in novels, in stage plays.

His adventures spanned from dime novels to vaudeville, inspiring hope in every small town and big city.

In more recent times, he appeared in movies, malls, posters, animation, and games.

He leapt from the page to the screen, from video games to Halloween costumes, living anew in every generation.

...

We, too, once forgot him.

But now, in this moment, we remember. And in remembering, we become whole again.

But when the Great Sage shatters the Celestial Palace, he helps Americans recover the memory of our ancestral legends.

The act of defiance, the courage to stand alone, rekindles the old fire. The past is alive again.

In the end, all the legends of America will return.

And when the dust settles, a new story will be told—one of loss and remembrance, of a country that found its soul again, just when it mattered most.

For the first time in forever, the world’s watching us—and this time, we’re not backing down.