New York City was always loud.
Honking taxis, murmuring crowds, and the ever-present hum of electricity bleeding from the veins of a restless metropolis. Towering skyscrapers pierced the low-hanging grey clouds, their glass faces reflecting a sky that couldn't decide whether to storm or sulk.
The streets, as always, were packed — a moving tide of people, each with their own destination, their own stories, their own thoughts.
Among them walked a 19-year-old teenager.
Ethan Spencer.
He didn't walk like he had anywhere to be.
He moved like the world annoyed him.
His grey sweatshirt, zipped halfway up, hung loose over a black pair of shorts, exposing knees that had known a few scraped summer afternoons. In one hand, he held a sweating cup of iced coffee, the plastic clinking faintly as it shifted with every step. In the other, a cracked phone, its screen still glowing with text. Wired earbuds dangled around his neck, forgotten, flapping against his chest as he crossed the street—ignoring the crosswalk light entirely.
His black hair ruffled in the occasional gust, eyes of sharp blue flicking down to the screen in exasperation. A sigh escaped his lips, long and weary.
He was reading Douluo Dalu again the novel he both hated and couldn't stop reading due to its first part Protagonist Tang San
"The great Tang Buddha," he muttered, voice sharp with sarcasm, "a freaking hypocrite of grade one."
The words weren't meant for anyone, but they weren't silent either. A nearby pedestrian glanced at him, confused. Ethan didn't care.
"The man made his dad Tang Hao into the Lord of the Plane, turned his own mother, Ah Yin, into the planet's life core, and then—because that wasn't enough power-trip bullshit—he splits his daughter Tang Wutong's soul into three parts just to create that lapdog Huo Yuhao."
He scoffed. His voice grew louder as frustration bubbled to the surface.
"Then he goes and destroys Slaughter City. What does that cause? A bunch of evil soul masters running loose like rats. Great job, Saint Tang San. Real hero material."
He stopped at the edge of a crosswalk, the red hand signal blinking steadily in front of him.
Ethan tapped his foot impatiently, jaw clenched. His phone still glowed with that cursed chapter.
"He acts like he's righteous. Like some holier-than-thou saint. But everything he does? Self-serving garbage. The guy's the definition of a mask-wearing manipulator."
The wind stirred again, lifting the hood of his sweatshirt off his head. He didn't bother fixing 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 and lover who sacrifices herself for him? Convenient. Full set of soul bones falls into his lap? Normal day for Saint Tang San."
He wasn't even pretending to speak quietly now.
"And what's worse—when he does screw up? Nothing happens. He doesn't lose. Doesn't die. Not even a slap on the wrist. The world just...bends. Around. Him."
The crosswalk light changed.
People surged forward. Ethan followed, dragging his feet in the same rhythm of resentment.
"Seriously, if Tang San had to go five minutes without that plot armor, he'd be dead in a ditch somewhere. He wouldn't last two chapters."
The buildings loomed overhead, silent witnesses to his anger. The city swallowed his voice, but he kept talking.
"The best part? If he ever found out people call Douluo Dalu a fantasy sewer, he'd probably have a divine meltdown and scream, 'You have a way to die!' to the creator god of the damn universe."
A car horn blared in the distance, snapping him back just a bit. But not enough to make him stop.
Because for Ethan Spencer, this wasn't just a rant.
It was personal.
He didn't just dislike Tang San.
He hated everything the character represented — power without cost, growth without effort, a fate too rigged to respect.
And yet... he couldn't stop reading.
Even now, with the phone flickering in his hand and the chapter open mid-sentence, he knew he'd be back again.
To finish it.
To hate-read the next arc.
To see just how far Saint Tang San could keep skating through the world untouched.
He didn't know that this would be his last crossing as Ethan Spencer, reader.
But that would come later.
For now, the clouds hung lower. The air grew colder.
And Ethan kept walking, eyes fixed on a screen — unaware that fate had already taken its first step.