The Man, the Myth, the Sombrero

You ever lie so hard the universe decides to make it true?

Because I have. And let me tell you — it’s not as fun as it sounds.

It started as a story. A bluff. A last-ditch panic ramble to keep the team moving forward. I said Duo was an ancient god. I said he’d gone dormant. I said he sealed himself away in Allegheny, waiting for humanity to say “sorry” with better grammar.

And now?

Now we’re standing in front of a literal tomb.

A stone monument in the middle of a language apocalypse, carved with symbols that weren’t there yesterday.

The man who launched Kaito into orbit is back.

The cult is on its way.

And for some reason, nobody has pointed out that I’m a liar with a notepad and absolutely zero weapons.

So here I am.

A narrator-turned-journalist-turned-impostor-priest-of-an-owl-god...

...trying to survive my own myth.

Let’s hope the universe goes easy on me.

Because if it doesn’t?

We are officially out of commas, luck, and time.

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The Man in the Sombrero didn’t flinch.

Didn’t greet us.

Didn’t blink.

Just stood there at the tomb entrance like a Western movie had glitched into our apocalypse and spat out its grumpiest character.

“You’re late,” he repeated, voice gravel-coated and smug.

Kaito stepped forward, his fists already clenched. “You launched me into space.”

The man tilted his head, the sombrero casting a long shadow. “I gave you a view.”

Hana took a step forward. “Move.”

“No.”

She reached for her blade.

“Easy,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Hana said. “Because I really want to hurt you.”

Then chaos broke.

The first punch wasn’t thrown—it happened. Kaito lunged, ducked a swinging baton, and tackled the sombrero man straight into the dirt. They rolled. Fists. Elbows. Kaito yelled something that may have been, “This is for the moon, you jerk!”

Hana darted in next—blade flashing, sharp and fast—but the man twisted, kicked her sideways, and rolled back to his feet like his boots were glued to physics.

Sota scrambled behind a tree. “I’m support! I’m support!”

The parrot screamed, “TACTICAL PARROT STRIKE!” and divebombed the sombrero.

It was glorious.

Feathers. Beak. Talons. A blinding storm of profanity in three languages.

And then—

The man rolled, used Kaito as a springboard, flipped behind Hana, and threw her off balance with a sweep of his leg.

Sota tripped over Kaito.

The parrot got swatted mid-air and spiraled into a bush with a cry of “I REGRET NOTHING!”

And me?

I did what any self-respecting narrator-turned-imposter-turned-apocalypse-squad-member would do:

I panicked.

Then I picked up a stick and ran straight into the fight.

“Journalistic interference!” I shouted, wildly swinging my stick like I was exorcising a bad grammar ghost.

He caught it with one hand.

Snapped it in half.

Backhanded me into a pile of moss.

“Worth it,” I wheezed.

“Too slow,” he muttered.

Kaito groaned from the ground. “I hate this guy.”

“We all do,” Hana hissed, pushing herself up.

But something shifted then.

Hana looked to Kaito.

Kaito nodded.

Sota scrambled upright.

The parrot emerged, leafy and furious.

“Okay,” I said from the sidelines, already scribbling. “Now it’s a team fight.”

Round two.

Hana ducked low and slashed toward his leg.

Kaito recovered and slammed into him from behind.

Sota tackled his knees.

The parrot circled back in, flinging pinecones with surgical precision.

I threw my notebook.

It missed.

But the distraction worked.

The Man in the Sombrero staggered. For the first time—off balance.

Kaito punched.

Hana struck.

Sota screamed something about friendship and launched his backpack like a bowling ball.

And then I saw it.

The look.

A twitch of his eye.

A flicker of doubt.

He turned to retreat—but we were ready.

Kaito blocked left.

Hana to the right.

Sota stood in front, wobbling but determined.

And I was behind him with the parrot on my shoulder, both of us out of breath and full of adrenaline and terrible ideas.

“You’re surrounded,” Hana said.

He looked at each of us.

At the tomb behind him.

At the trees beyond.

And then, for the first time since we met him, the Man in the Sombrero stepped back.

Not to strike.

Not to dodge.

But because he knew—

He couldn’t win this alone.

Not this time.

Not against us.

“Don’t move,” Hana said.

The Man in the Sombrero didn’t.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared—calculating.

Then a sound rose behind us.

A hiss. A whisper.

Then chanting.

Low. Rhythmic. Deranged.

“STREEEAAAK... STREEEAAAK...”

We all turned.

The forest parted like a curtain made of bad intentions.

And there they were.

The Cult of the Forgotten Streak.

Dozens of them.

Ragged robes in neon green.

Glowing headbands shaped like Duolingo’s face.

Weapons made of grammar books duct-taped to broom handles. One guy was swinging a thesaurus like a flail.

At the front, a woman with eyeliner thick enough to black out the sun screamed:

“THE OWL CALLS—AND WE ANSWER!”

Sota flinched. “Oh no. Oh nope.”

Kaito: “We were this close to winning.”

The Man in the Sombrero didn’t seem surprised.

He simply adjusted his coat and said, “Took them long enough.”

“You called them?” I shouted.

He shrugged. “I called someone.”

Then all hell broke loose.

The cult surged forward like a wave of punctuation gone rogue.

Screaming.

Chanting.

Throwing flashcards like shurikens.

Hana pulled us behind a stone column near the tomb’s steps. “We hold them here!”

“Is this our tomb now?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But it will be if we die here.”

“Fair!”

A tomato—possibly sacred—exploded beside us.

The parrot yelled, “THEY HAVE FRUIT! RETREAT!”

Sota: “I try to make peace!”

Kaito: “When?!”

“Back… then!”

Sota hurled a tin of mystery food into the mob. It struck someone’s forehead. They collapsed, shouting “MY NOUN CENTER!”

Hana elbowed a cultist in the stomach and shoved him into a stack of “Verb or Vanish” banners.

Kaito used a camping pole to parry a man wielding a literal exclamation point sign. “Do these people train?”

“They LARP!” I shouted.

A flash grenade made of confetti burst in the sky.

Screams.

Shouts.

Then—

A cultist spotted me and pointed.

“There! The fake prophet!”

I froze. “…Me?”

They rushed.

I screamed.

Ran straight into the Man in the Sombrero.

He caught me. Shoved me behind him. “Stay alive. That’s your only job.”

“Aw, are you secretly protecting me?”

He didn’t answer.

Too busy punching someone wielding a plush owl like a nunchuck.

We kept fighting. Desperate. Outnumbered.

Sota tripped and accidentally tackled three people at once.

Kaito vaulted a fallen banner and slammed into a stack of Duolingo-branded riot shields.

Hana held the line like a goddess of passive-aggression and sharp elbows.

Even the parrot was divebombing, shrieking grammar corrections mid-attack:

“It’s their, not there, you lunatic!”

But it wasn’t enough.

More cultists poured in. We were being pushed back. Cornered.

I grabbed Kaito’s sleeve. “They’ll overrun us!”

Hana glanced toward the tomb entrance.

“Plan?”

Kaito looked at us. Bleeding. Bruised. Very out of breath.

Then back at the door.

“Inside.”

Sota blinked. “What if locked?”

I pulled out a weird, ancient owl-shaped key I definitely did not have before. “Then I hope this works.”

I jammed it in.

The door creaked open—

Stone. Moss. Cold darkness.

“Go!” Hana barked.

We bolted.

The cult screamed behind us.

The Man in the Sombrero held them back just long enough for us to get inside.

Then Kaito slammed it shut.

Darkness swallowed us.

Then silence.

Then—

Click.

A lock. A seal.

No one outside could follow.

For the moment… we were safe.

Inside the tomb.

Alone.

Together.

And finally… at the end.