Yeah, that's me, currently lying down in my own pool of blood. Life’s just not great, you know? Especially since it wasn’t great even before the system arrived. I was born into a poor family, and that itself wasn’t really that bad. But growing up not knowing what love felt like, being beaten by my parents for every tear I cried, for every scrap of food I begged for, and for every piece of clothing I wore—it just wasn’t fair. Being neglected might have been better, but yeah, here I am. Maybe I should be thankful for every beating I received; it molded me into the man I am right now.
Fuck, I’m getting emotional, haha. It seems those old people were right about one thing: memories do flash through your mind before you die. But I didn’t realize just how unlucky my life was. Beaten half to death from a young age, I could only fight back by the time I was 18. And when I did, I got arrested for it. Then, in prison, I became a punching bag again. Thankfully, I made it out after two years, but man, those were some rough years. But hey, I didn’t die.
When I got out, I tried getting back into society—working odd, respectful jobs at the Carbon fish market. I was a porter, a janitor, and I saved enough to become a fish seller myself by the time I was 25.
Oh, right, and maybe because of my age and the good people around me who helped after prison, I tried to make my own family. But first, I had to find a loving wife or husband—you know, love is love after all. I tried making myself more presentable as best I could, standing at 5'5" and weighing about 95 kg. You gotta work with what you have. With a face only a mother could love... oh wait, my mother didn’t even love me! Hahaha, high five to my ever-loving dark humor.
Anyway, I did find someone amazing, a loving woman. She was around 5'4", petite, with a model’s face—beautiful and all. Her name was Diana. We matched on a dating site one day, and after dating for about two years, we were planning our wedding, with her little pumpkin as the ring bearer. Oh yeah, one of the biggest reasons we hit it off was her daughter, Emelia—Emi, as I liked to call her. Emi was smart, cute, and funny. She was 9 years old when Diana and I matched, and from the first time I saw her, I just wanted to protect her. My first instinct was straight out of that “protect the child” meme. (edited)
But I guess lady luck wasn’t on my side. Just before the wedding date, I came home to find some guy giving my fiancée the best time of her life. Before I could let my instincts tell me to beat the living hell out of them, I covered Emi's eyes. We’d just come from our Father-Daughter Sunday Funday. I wasn’t about to ruin her day because her mom was a… yeah. I told Emi, "You know what, Emi? We should go back to the mall and get some ice cream. Maybe we can get Mommy some ice cream too since I heard she’s getting a new dog for us, you know? And you know… ice cream helps BITCHES IN HEAT!" I shouted those last words, slammed the door, and went back to the mall with Emi.
Then, that’s when the shit hit the fan. There was an announcement to the world—something about fate and destiny, I think. I don’t remember the details, but the one thing I do remember is that I had to keep Emi safe.
Man, I wish I had a higher intelligence stat, you know? If I did, maybe when the system arrived, I could cast spells and shit. But nooooo. Because of all the concussions I got growing up, I don’t even have that fucking stat. I mean, fuck me for hoping, right? But yeah, I just picked the path most familiar to me.
Alright, enough moping. Time to do something that will probably kill me.
I stand up, blood still dripping from the fresh wounds covering my body. I brace myself in front of the entrance to this mall, hands up in a fighting stance (which I’m totally winging) as I face thousands of enemies surging toward the mall, trying to devour everyone inside. For I am the protector of the weak. My body is my armor. My fists are my swords. For I am Rick, the Brawler.