Alan, the Champion — Chapter 1 — The King
This isn't the story of how Alan became king of Marélia. It's the story of who he met along the way.
Before he was King, he was cannon fodder, a convict, a killer. At thirteen, he ran grown men.
This isn't the story of how I became the king of Marélia.
I'd love it to be. I'd love to tell you anything else — the city down there at night, the noise it makes, the way the lights come on one by one when the sun drops behind the buildings of people who'll never have to climb up here. That would be a pretty story.
Right now there's a man in his thirties sitting in a plastic chair in front of my desk, waiting for me to decide what to do with him. He's two months behind. He's got a wife, he's got a kid, he's got a good excuse and a bad one, and out of the two he chose to tell the bad one, which already says a lot about him.
I listen, I ask one question, I listen again. Then I say one sentence. He thanks me like a man who's been pardoned from a death sentence, because he has. He gets up, walks out, and he'll never be late on a payment again in his life.
A grown man. Calling me sir.
It wasn't always like this.
I learned the rules early. Real early.
Not school rules — I never went to school. Life rules. And they're simple: there's one reason you're alive, and that reason is to still be alive tomorrow. That's it. Everything else is decoration other people hang on top so they don't have to look at that part.
Anybody who grows up where I grew up learns that before they learn to read.
My father used to say the world belongs to the strongest. He was almost right. It took me years and a steep price to figure out exactly where he got it wrong, and when I figured it out, I climbed. Muscle. Collector. Boss. Boss of the boss. One step at a time, every one earned the only way this world recognizes.
In the end they gave me a name. Or rather: from what they say, the one who gave me that name was Jack. The Champ.