Chapter 2: Humility’s Bitter Lesson

I lost.

The truth of it hit me like a cold slap. I’d spent my whole life trying to be the best, and now, here I was—just another name on a long list of failures. It’s funny how quickly pride turns to dust when you’re faced with the real deal.

Back then, with my sword in hand, I roamed across Silver Hollow. Every major order trembled at the mere mention of my name.

Those were the glory days—Sunday afternoon duels behind the old water tower, local legends about the guy who could split a fencepost with one swing. I used to wear my reputation like a letterman jacket, always strutting, always sure the world owed me something.

When I ascended, I ignored the storm and split open the Gates of Heaven with a single stroke.

It was reckless and dramatic, like driving your dad’s pickup into a tornado just to see what would happen. I didn’t care about the consequences; I just wanted the world to remember me.

I was bursting with pride, looking down on everyone.

Arrogance came easy. I felt untouchable, like the king of a one-stoplight town on homecoming night. Every glance felt like an admission of my greatness, every whispered rumor fuel for my ego.

I thought myself invincible, but later I realized: there were a hundred thousand others just as powerful as me.

That’s the cruel joke of it—no matter how big you get in your own pond, there’s always a bigger fish waiting just outside your line of sight. I realized, with a gut-deep ache, that I was nothing more than a small-town hero in a world full of legends.

Worse still, before I could even find my footing, a monkey wielding an iron staff appeared.

He was chaos personified—a blur of muscle and mayhem, flipping through the sky like a gymnast on Red Bull. The crowd parted, and I knew, deep down, that all my training meant nothing.

A hundred thousand of me wouldn’t be able to touch a single hair on his head.

That thought was humbling. For the first time, I understood what it meant to be outclassed, to watch someone else step up and rewrite the rules.

Then a man with three eyes showed up.

He cut through the noise like a siren at 2 AM, eyes blazing with an intensity I’d only seen in nightmares. You didn’t have to be a genius to know he was out of my league.

Even the dog at his side could have crushed me with a single paw.

No joke—the mutt was the size of a grizzly and looked twice as mean. I remember thinking, "If I make it out of this, I’m never underestimating anyone’s pet again."

When those two fought—spear against iron staff—mountains crumbled and the entire Heavenly Court shook.

It was apocalyptic, like someone had dropped a nuke on the Fourth of July parade. The ground heaved, and the air turned to fire. I tried to stand tall, but the blast tossed me like a leaf in a hurricane.

And me? I died in the fallout of their battle.

No hero’s death, no last stand. Just collateral damage—one more casualty in a war I barely understood.

Honestly, it’s kind of humiliating.

If there were an afterlife for egos, mine would have died twice over. It was the kind of ending you don’t talk about at reunions, the sort you pray your mom never hears about.

A dignified swordmaster of Silver Hollow, killed by a stray blast—just some nobody caught in the crossfire.

My whole life I’d tried to stand apart, and in the end, I was just another forgotten casualty—a lesson in humility for anyone still listening.