A man who appeared to be in his early thirties, with short red hair and a hulking physique that strained against his white shirt and gray jogger pants, sat in a plush chair resembling a modern-day throne.
A glass of wine rested in his hand as he stared at the wall, his gaze lost and forlorn.
"Stupid old man…why can't you at least wait for me before kicking the bucket?" Roland muttered.
He looked around his luxurious room.
Somehow, it felt larger and emptier than ever. He had everything he had ever wished for.
The finest, most spacious bed. The throne-like chair he sat in. The most prestigious brand of wine.
A multi-million-dollar computer setup he had barely touched more than twice.
And, most importantly, a vast training hall filled with state-of-the-art equipment.
He owned countless other luxuries—things he had bought simply because he had no idea what else to do with his wealth.
But after nearly two decades of doing what he loved, even that began to lose its thrill.
The excitement dulled, the fights felt routine, and the rush he once craved faded into monotony as he began to find his opponents easier and easier to defeat.
He was levels above everyone else, and he wasn't enjoying it as much anymore.
He needed something more. Something real.
And so, in a shocking announcement, Roland Jones—the legendary world champion across multiple martial arts disciplines in the most dangerous and electrifying heavyweight division—retired and enlisted in the military.
He craved a deeper connection to true combat, and what better way than to throw himself into a war against the wretched rebels who plagued the nation?
That way, he could truly test his martial mettle with the highest stakes: death.
Just like how he took over the commercial combat world, Roland excelled in the military, ruthlessly purging the motherland of filthy terrorists and rebels, though it turned out not as exciting as he once thought.
Melee combat was almost nonexistent and all they did was shoot with the highest quality of guns.
Rifle aiming skills didn't even matter much, as all he needed to do was follow instructions from a superior, and the blood of rebels formed streams and rivers.
The rebels didn't even have the same level of equipment, so things didn't feel as dangerous as he'd hoped.
And so, he decided to rest and retire to figure things out, give himself time to search for what he truly needed in life.
Maybe visiting the old man who saved him from the dumpsters, taught him how to fight, brought him to the pinnacle of the world, and hasn't seen in a few years was a good start?
Alas, the old man had already departed the world.
The reason? Choking on a f*cking huge piece of ribeye steak!
'Why the hell would you buy cheap meat when you're already rich?!' Roland wanted to roar in sheer frustration and grief, crushing the glass of wine in his hands. 'If you'd just bought prime-grade cuts like I always told you, you wouldn't have died, dammit! You always called me dumb, but aren't you way dumber?!'
He couldn't believe it—he would never see the only person he had ever remotely considered a parental figure again, all because of such a stupid reason.
Were the damned gods actually real?
Were they punishing him for his disbelief, despite having granted him endless riches?
In the end, Roland could only sigh as memories of the balding old man resurfaced in his mind, telling tales of unrecoverable days he never knew were among his happiest.
He could've at least listened to and appreciated the geezer more…
It was then that a specific memory flashed, one that might be a clue to what he needed to do next.
"Roland, you moron, you need to focus on what truly matters—find a partner! You're missing out on sex and a loving family when you could easily have both!
Honestly, you're the dumbest person I've ever met. Maybe all those punches to the head finally did some damage? You should get yourself checked out."
The old man had insulted and infuriated him more times than he could count.
And yet, strangely, this once-annoying piece of advice made him chuckle—softly, but with a hint of loneliness.
He missed the darned geezer… far more than he had ever imagined.
A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, but Roland quickly wiped it away as he stood up, cleaning the mess of shattered glass and spilled wine.
He found himself pondering as he worked:
'A life partner, huh? Maybe I really do need a woman in my life?'
There's nothing else to do anyway… So, why not give the old man's advice a try?
Who knows?
Maybe the geezer would save him again—just as he always had, even in Roland's toughest pinches in the octagon back when he was still climbing the heavyweight rankings.
And so, after clearing the mess in his room, the maidenless, invincible champion of the world stood up and left his manor.
He told himself he'd start looking for a woman to shift his attention to—but he had no idea where to begin.
Thus, he ended up wandering aimlessly that day, casually checking out women on the street.
None of them seemed uncomfortable.
In fact, they seemed to appreciate his gaze.
After all, he was six-foot-six, fair-skinned, and undeniably attractive, with a physique sculpted like a Greek god's.
His shirt could barely contain his muscular frame.
Roland's mind was finally free of the martial hex that had plagued him for the past decades, and he was now able to appreciate the beauty of women.
Who knew they were such attractive creatures?
Those curves…some more lovely than the others…
He wanted a taste of those…
His lively little brother downstairs was protesting for some long-overdue action as well.
With a confident grin, Roland approached a woman that caught his fancy.
But just then, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed from behind. Someone was rushing straight toward him—fast.
Instinct kicked in, and Roland turned, his eyes widening momentarily as he realized what was happening.
An assassination attempt? And with a knife, no less?
'How dumb…'
Roland wasn't scared in the slightest.
The assailant was obviously untrained—his hands trembled as he clumsily lunged forward with the blade.
The mad, desperate look on the man's face told Roland that this wasn't a planned attempt on his life.
It was simply the deranged struggle of a drug addict who probably thought he was rich and that killing him would bring in a fortune.
'How could such an inferior creature possibly defeat me?' he thought.
With a swift and masterful sidestep, Roland effortlessly dodged the panicked attacker's strike.
Then, with a single, precise chop to the neck, he sent the fool crashing into unconsciousness.
Unfortunately, the next and last thing he saw after was the blinding lights of a different kind of grim reaper—metallic, towering, and rolling on ten wheels.
'There's just no f*cking way I'm going to die a virgi–'
A deafening honk later, Roland fell into oblivion's embrace.