1 Chapter 1

Oftentimes, there's a moment in everyone's life where they wish for something drastic, supernatural, or downright world-bending to interfere with their lives, changing it for the better. I personally like to call those people believers, then crazy right after.

I don't think I would take it too well if some intellectual infatuated with his own sense of justice were to come and try to introduce me to "The wonders of Life!" or "10 Easy Steps to Improve Your Life!: The Book". That feels just downright manipulative.

Sure my worldview on the so-called "miracles" or "Heroes" is fairly pessimistic, but I like to tell myself that I'm worth something more; maybe I'm special or different from the rest.

Hi, my name's Jasper Moore, and I'm pretty depressed right now. Also, a little pessimistic.

Alright, listen up. Being a pessimist doesn't come from nowhere, in fact, I have a pretty good reason as to why I'm like this. At least, It's what I would consider a good reason.

I have no fucking legs.

Not like you could tell anyway, as this is a purely imaginative description.

Anyways, you might be wondering how I got into this situation? So, let's take a look back.

To not waste any of your precious time, I was just born without them. No dramatic and tear-jerking backstory, just six simple words. I've just never had any legs, and as you may have already guessed: this presents a couple problems.

Let's start with an obvious one. I can't walk. You know, the act of moving at a regular pace by lifting and setting down each foot in turn, never having both feet off the ground at once.

But since I could never walk in the first place, it never actually felt like that much of a disability. It's more like a terrible ability of mine.

Since Earth right now hasn't developed hovering wheelchairs, I'm stuck with a totally less cool version, which is in fact, a normal wheelchair. Sporting a top speed of five miles an hour, or in international speak, around half the top speed of a running squirrel, my ride is pretty slick. A suave red and black coating adorns the carbon fiber frame, along with a leather seat, sometimes housing yours truly.

This wheelchair has been with me for years, being more than just a frame with wheels. In fact, at times, it acts as my physical and emotional support.

Embracing the wheelchair lifestyle is either recommended, mandatory, or a weird kink. It comes with it's own fair share of problems.

Life in a wheelchair, if I didn't mention it already, is extremely difficult. Every little bump or small child seems to approach you with a seething hatred, determined to either stop you for more than thirty seconds, or block your path with the determination of an immensely indoctrinated cult member.

Also, everyone is tall, and, if I were like certain arrogant young masters in cultivation novels, I would have fought more than half the known human population for "looking down on my power".

My experience in this chair mounted on wheels has also introduced a couple interesting and thought-provoking questions too. Like:

Why are the handles of drawers so high up?

How do some people have the self awareness of a rock millions of years away from sentience when a dude in a wheelchair innocently cruises by?

Who programmed crosswalks to allow walking across streets for less than ten seconds?

When will I get a hovering wheelchair?

Anyways…

If you couldn't tell already, my thoughts are extremely sarcastic, with some pessimism sprinkled in, along with a dash of hopefully decent humor. With thoughts like these, It's entirely reasonable to assume that I would have a close group of friends who are brutally honest with each other, but are pretty chill with their differences in opinions. But your boy's got the ultimate device, featuring the latest instalment of A.F.M., or Anti-Friend-Making, and it looks suspiciously like a wheel chair.

That's right folks, I have no friends. Literally none, and as much as I'd like to not admit it, this sense of humor seemed to originate from it.

Frankly, on a serious note: I'm not happy or satisfied with my life.

I have no meaningful connections or family members that acknowledge me, or friends that cherish me for who I am. Other than my weirdly convoluted sense of kinship with my wheelchair, there's no relationships to speak of.

*Sigh* Moving on...

As ironic as it sounds, I was born into a family that practices martial arts. The craziest thing is the next part though. They practice fucking taekwondo.

They

Use

Their

L E G S

To

Fight

Let that sink in.

Now if you completely ignored my monologue about my tragic backstory, now's the time to start waking up. Cause I honestly think this is pretty hilarious. Like, what kind of sick joke is this? I don't know whether to be disappointed, depressed, laughing, or regretting my entire existence. I don't have legs, which spells a pretty difficult problem.

So, like any self-respecting and purist taekwondo family residing in the boring state of Idaho, I promptly got distanced from the rest of the family. Being the wonderful state of Idaho, capital of the potato producing market in the United States of America, there is literally nothing to do other than contributing to the family potato farm, practicing taekwondo, or being homeschooled by parents that would make even the worst teachers seem outstanding in their work.

I live in a splendid and welcoming family of six, with me being the seventh (catch my drift here). Both my parents are in their late fifties, and have faithfully practiced the wonderfully convenient art of Taekwondo smack dab in the middle of nowhere. The rest of the nutjobs are my four brothers, who have all faithfully followed the family doctrine, along with a hobby of potato farming.

These brothers of mine are all older than me, with the oldest being around twenty-five years old. Personally, I don't remember the rest of the ages, but I doubt they remember mine.

Simply put, my relationship with them is wonderful. They love playing and running around with my wheelchair, along with making every family trip a fantastic game of weird Taekwondo mafia.

Life with those six is extremely… well… "interesting" to put it lightly. To put it realistically, they're a bunch of fucking PSYCOS. Last I saw of the four brothers, they were practicing their martial arts on potatoes shaped like human silhouettes. Like, what? Could they just not scare away any reasonable person within literally thirty miles?

Their intelligence is a can of worms even I don't want to open. Each one of them is a fully grown man that seems to have the common sense and intelligence of a grade-schooler. They're all really, like, really good at taekwondo, but someone in middle school could easily destroy them in a rap battle.

Not only do I barely get taught basic and fundamental knowledge back when I sometimes travel home, but I never get a chance to interact with the world, other than the restricted access of my mobile phone.

Somehow, even with the nearly non-existent internet access, terrible wifi, and the absolutely horrendous prowess of this terrible mobile device, I'm addicted to anime. Could I use this life-changing, pocket-sized, and revolutionary device to make my mark on the world and improve my life? Yes. Do I?

No.

I use my limited time to watch some terrible shows, because something more than thirteen episodes takes nearly three months to finish due to wifi that would make Satan burst into tears in pain if he ever used it. Hence, I have learned that the more short shows I watch, the more shows I watch. It's something of a mantra.

I judge myself as a diverse specimen featured in the metaphorical zoo of protagonists due to my tastes, as I consider myself a, wait for it, a MAN OF CULTURE. Yes, you heard me right? Did you expect me to mindlessly watch Isekai protagonists being reincarnated and transmigrated to other worlds due to the noble actions of the ever reliable truck-kun? Nope, like any seventeen year-old with nearly no physical interactions whatsoever, I spent my precious time admiring the great works of art featured on numerous sketchy websites.

As I transformed mentally from a young boy to a man all of those years ago, I have remarkably kept my virginity, but also refined my taste in fictional 2d girls. My anonymous comments on multiple esteemed platforms have garnered a decent following of like-minded individuals. I view my existence as the comment section's greatest muse.

Looking back on it though, this is kind of depressing, because I think this is my greatest achievement. Nothing comes close to this. My life entirely revolves around being a self appointed MAN OF CULTURE, and while depressing, It's all I've got going for me.

...

I snap out of my life's reminiscing as I glance around the sparsely decorated room. This space holds many memories, mainly featuring the wonders of the internet, but also ones where I felt genuinely depressed. It's all dusted wooden walls, covered with some cheap white paint which I slathered on to make it feel more "Normal".

Sighing, I slowly maneuver myself on the bed. According to my antique clock hanging up in the upper lefthand corner in my room, it's around five thirty in the morning. The only window struggles to hold back the brilliant light of a good old-fashioned Idaho sunrise. Shielding my eyes, I stare at my wheelchair.

"Loyal steed, your esteemed knight has decided to begin a perilous journey to the far reaches of this loathsome dungeon. Will you aid me in my perilous quest?" I speak in dramatic fashion to a wheelchair which is definitely not a horse.

"…"

"Good. Let's ride."

The process of mounting my wheelchair is not as hard as many would think. It's almost like attempting to climb a rock wall with wheels mounted on the bottom, as it moves down a bustling highway. Alright fine, I forgot to lock the wheels; It's not actually this hard to get into this god-forsaken abomination with wheels for legs.

It's time.

I imagine a flash of dramatic light, with the challenger being the devout and charismatic knight from potato fields of Idaho: me, versus the disgusting and vulgar incarnation of Cthulhu: Wheelchair. The match began with my quick maneuvering, using my near decade of practical experience to position myself close to the edge of my bed with my arms.

My opponent was still, and seemed to be plotting something extremely sinister, appearing to almost beckon me to attempt to sit upon it's glorious leather seat.

I steeled my will against this obvious taunt, practiced over years of internet exposure I really don't want to mention, and let out a short breath, tensing both my arms as I began my preparation to end the daily bought.

Suddenly, I pushed myself quickly, leaving the bed and grabbing the handle of my wheelchairs right arm rest. Victory was in sight, and I was in a perfect position for the hostile takeover.

...But then tragedy struck.

Almost as if laughing, my opponent proceeded to move at a speed that betrayed even my most wildest imagination. A simple act of teleporting through space-time would seem accurate in the eyes of what I just saw. Scratching noises ensued on the wooden floor as the wheelchair abruptly moved backwards, leaving my iron grip with ease.

Time crawled to an agonizingly slow pace. I was falling to my inevitable doom.

Simple tears of defeat quickly escaped through my eyes as I slowly fell to the ground, desperately reaching out for salvation.

*Thump*

...Humiliation and defeat, along with a now sore ass, I sat, with a new sense of helplessness I seldom felt this powerfully.

My battle ended in defeat.

The floor was moist with only two single tear drops, one for each eye, as I depressingly pulled and locked the wheelchair wheels; sitting on the seat of my nefarious steed felt humiliating, my overly dramatic battle fresh in my mind. No longer was I the valiant knight proudly fighting for the fields of Idaho. All that could be seen on my face was a grimace. The only light still left in my eyes extinguished.

To any bystander, this battle would look like a terrible take on one of the worst plays in all of human existence. Thankfully, I live alone. Did I mention that?

My lovely two room suite is located around two miles away from my family's residence in the glorious state of Idaho, and, quite honestly, it's the sorry sight. This "house", if you could even call it that, is pretty terrible. Only the sweet allures of living alone, free water and electricity, and not being able to actually leave keep me attached to this garbage dump of a building.

The living room where I don't "live", has an extremely small kitchen and a couch. I'm a firm believer in the supreme awesomeness of the couch, because it's the place where my fondest memories of aloneness happen. While the comfort is guaranteed, the design is terrible though. Featuring a plaid design, adorned with stripes of pink and red, this couch is really fucking ugly.

Hence, that brings us to the end of the house tour, because since the couch is so blindingly obnoxious, there's no need to even focus on the rest of the bland stuff. Right now I'm on the couch eating toasted white bread, because I don't really have any other food source right now. However, this toasted white bread actually slaps, and it tastes kind of good.

I'm about to finish eating my five course meal when some weird, deeply masqulin voice interrupts my sacred practice.

[Finally found you guys. Your planet is hidden pretty well, but I can see some hidden potential.*sigh*]

[You know, it's pretty hard to find challengers in this galaxy, especially ones as undeveloped as you. So… Hope you enjoy what comes next!]

[..Bada Bing Bada Boom..]

[...Bing Bada Boom Bada...]

[...Boom Bada Bing Bada…]

[...Bada Boom Bada Bing…]

[YaHoO!...]

[AND FINALLY!.... CaTcHoOm!]

[GOOD LUCK MY DUDES! MAKE YOUR BIG DADDY PROUD! yEhAw!]

…

"Hmm?"

"Did I just hear that right? What in the flippin' nine hells was that?!"

The only response I get from my empty room is silence, but then I see something weird flash across my vision.

[UDM Initializing...]

[...3...]

[...2...]

[...1...]

[It's time to gather to defend the universe! Please locate your nearest Gate to begin the trials!]

[Good Luck!]

Simply put, wielding the fictional title of MAN OF CULTURE wasn't enough to prepare me for the sheer oddity of what I just heard.

A lone seventeen year old, sitting on his extremely ugly couch suddenly started laughing out loud in his seemingly abandoned two room home.

It seems like the world was about to change...