New York City.
The sky was overcast, its gray hue smeared like a dull brushstroke over the tall, steel-framed horizon. Car horns blared in chaotic harmony. Feet slapped against pavement. Somewhere, music drifted faintly from a store window. It was an ordinary day in an extraordinary city.
Among the flow of bodies walking the Street , there is a figure moved with a bitter scowl, shoulders hunched looking 19 year old teenager with eyes tired from too many sleepless nights,
He is stalking through the streets like a man possessed and is wearing a Grey Sweatshirt zipped halfway up and Black Shorts
He has an iced coffee in one hand and a cracked phone in the other, wired earbuds hanging loose around his neck as he crossed the street without really watching the traffic light.
His face twisted with that familiar online-warrior conviction, eyes scanning a Reddit post he was replying to with absurd intensity.
This Teenager has Black hairs and Blue Pupils is me and My Name is Ethan Spencer , A Normal 19 Year Old New Yorker who is currently very frustrated as the phone screen is still open to the latest translated chapter of Douluo Dalu
The novel he both hated and couldn't stop reading due to its first part Protagonist Tang San
Ethan says " The great Tang Buddha a freaking hypocrite of grade 1 who did all kind of shit imaginable by making his father Tang Hao the lord of plane of douluo dalu and his mother Ah Yin the life core of planet and divided his daughter tang wutong soul into 3 parts "
"Tang San is such a joke," he muttered under his breath, voice just loud enough to draw a glance or two from passing strangers. "He acts like he's some righteous hero, but he's one of the biggest hypocrites I've ever read."
His fingers flexed in his pocket, curling around the edges of his phone. The Douluo Dalu app was still open, paused mid-chapter. He'd been reading during his subway ride, and it had set him off again.
"Spouting crap about loyalty and justice one second, then killing people the next like it's no big deal. And somehow, the story makes it all okay? Give me a break."
He stopped at the edge of a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The signal flickered red, and Ethan tapped his foot impatiently, eyes fixed on the blinking hand as if it represented everything wrong with the world.
"Tang San's worse, honestly. Because he wears this mask like he's better than everyone. Like he's some untouchable saint. He acts all noble while doing shady, selfish crap every arc."
The wind kicked up, blowing back the hood of his sweatshirt. He didn't bother to fix it.
"And don't even get me started on the plot armor. Twin martial souls? Seriously? Who the hell gets that? Oh, but of course, he deserves it because he's 'the protagonist,' right?" He rolled his eyes. "Everything handed to him on a silver damn platter. Ice and Fire Yin-Yang Well? Boom—immortality herbs. A hundred-thousand-year-old mother who sacrifices herself for him? Convenient. Full set of soul bones falls into his lap? Normal day for Saint Tang San."
His tone was dripping with sarcasm now.
"And what happens when he messes up? Nothing. Fate bends over backwards to protect him. Every time. Can't lose. Can't die. Can't even face real consequences."
The walk signal flickered on. People began crossing. Ethan followed the crowd slowly, still grumbling.
"Honestly, if Tang San had to fight without that plot armor for five minutes, he'd be dead."
As he walked, his thoughts grew darker, deeper, less focused on just fiction and more like a personal challenge.
"The best thing is if Tang San knows that douluo dalu is known as the fantasy sewer than he will be angry and blame Creator God of Douluo universe by saying 'You have a way to die'."
Traffic lights blinked red. Somewhere, a horn blared.
Ethan didn't notice.
"I mean, bro destroyed slaughter city and killed spirit hall who worked for commoners and did all messed up things to Huo Yuhao , and acts like he's a hero! And people just EAT IT UP—like he's the messiah of the cultivation world."
Another step into the road. Tires screeched.
"Meanwhile, someone like Yun Che flat-out admits he's selfish. But Tang San? Nah. He pretends he's better. That's what makes him worse."
A heavy engine roared.
Someone shouted: "HEY, WATCH OUT!"
Too late.
CRASH.
The sound of metal colliding with flesh wasn't as dramatic as it was in movies. It was a sickening, dull thump, followed by a collective gasp from the crowd and the hollow rattle of a phone skittering across the pavement.
The coffee cup exploded. Ice cubes scattered. Ethan's body rolled a short distance before going still, one hand twitching as blood trickled into the cracks of the concrete.
The light turned green again.
A woman screamed. A man dialed 911 with shaking fingers. The driver, pale and wide-eyed, stumbled out of the vehicle, stammering apologies.
But Ethan wasn't moving.
His cracked phone still glowed faintly, displaying his final, unfinished rant:
"...and honestly, Tang San is just Yun Che in disguise. Both are walking trash heaps with plot armor so thick it makes me sick."
Above the street, the clouds darkened.
And deep within the unknown currents of existence, something stirred.
A soul, torn from flesh but not yet dispersed, drifted in limbo. Ethan Spencer—keyboard warrior, critic, cynic—had met his abrupt end doing exactly what he loved: calling out what he believed was bullshit.
But death, as he was about to discover, was not the end.
It was only the beginning.