The next day my dad drove us far away, at least one hour away from our house. The car came to a stop in front of a house. It was smaller than the last one, but newer, brighter. I stepped out, trying to steady my breathing as the sight of them hit me like a punch to the gut: her, with her carefully styled hair and sickeningly sweet smile, and the girl, a shadow of innocence standing close to her side.

“Daryn,” my dad said, voice unnaturally chipper, “come meet Carol and her daughter, Rika.”

I didn’t say a word. What could I say? Everything inside me wanted to lash out, to scream, but I bit it back.

Carol smiled, all too polished, her lips a shade too red to feel genuine. “Dorion, dear, please. Rika’s just a nickname. He should know her proper name.”

“Oh, right, of course. Rika, please why don’t you introduce yourself?” my dad asked

The girl looked at me with wide, sharp eyes, her voice soft but clear. “I’m Rikasya Rubyforge Quartzveil,” she said, with a small bow. “But my family calls me Rika.”

Family. The word stung in a way I didn’t expect.

My dad, ever the fool, had thrown us into this situation without a second thought. I could feel my mom’s absence like a weight in the air.

“Hehe, see? She’s just being polite,” my dad chuckled nervously. “Daryn, she’ll be your step-sister now.”

Step-sister. Great. Fantastic. In some other way maybe this could have been a good fantasy, but now, I have a bitter taste in my mouth.

The house was nice, sure. But there wasn’t a room for me. The sofa in the living room became “my space.” I didn’t care about the material downgrade, but something about it felt symbolic. Like I didn’t belong here.

Carol’s eyes lingered on me, her expression never quite reaching warmth. I can see through her carefully constructed facade. She is trouble, the kind of trouble that snags men like my dad, and I hate how easily he’d fallen for it.

Rika, though... She was harder to pin down. She seemed quiet, polite, and maybe even shy. But there was something about her gaze, something calculating that didn’t match her age.

As I lay on that couch later that night, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a new chapter—it was the start of a storm. Carol wasn’t going to be the kind of stepmother you’d find in fairy tales, and Rika? She might not be a helpless sibling in need of my protection.

As I sat on the sofa, the bouncing ball came in.

“Ey, what’s up, partner? Feeling lonely?”

“Huh? Pachesko? Where were you?”

“Well, your dad locked me in the vault from the old house thinking I was a toy. Took me a while to figure out how to roll my way out. Seems like life hasn’t been treating you well either, huh?”

My dad overheard the conversation, turning toward me with a puzzled expression.

“What? That thing again?”

I scrambled to explain. “It’s like a mascot! Please, can I keep it?”

Dad furrowed his brow, looking from me to Pachesko, who somehow managed to bounce innocently beside me. “No way. We’re not in the old house anymore. If Carol sees it, she’ll be furious.”

“Please, Dad.” I tried to sound earnest, hoping guilt might work its magic. My desperation must’ve hit the mark because, after a long sigh, he relented.

“Fine. But only if Carol agrees. And if that thing is really alive, you better promise it won’t cause trouble.”

“Yes! I promise it won’t,” I said, grinning as Pachesko twirled in celebration.

That evening, Dad brought up Pachesko during his conversation with Carol. I stayed in my room, eavesdropping from the edge of the door. The voices were tense but never escalated into shouting. Surprisingly, Dad seemed to hold his ground, reassuring her that it wouldn’t disturb anything.

What happened after, though, was... different. The light arguing turned into muffled laughter and something far less... conversational. I buried my head under my pillow as the unmistakable sounds of their "reconciliation" echoed through the house.

“Pachesko,” I whispered.

“Yeah?” the ball answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

“This is your fault.”

“Oh, sure, blame the ball.”

I groaned, waiting for the night to end.

Life with Carol and her daughter Rika had its ups and downs, but something surprising happened: I started going to school. Apparently, living with this new "family" convinced my dad that cultural learning was important. Shocking, really.

Each morning we did thirty minutes walking. I walked to school with Rika due to our parents' decision.

“Ey, Rika,” I called, catching her attention to start any conversation.

She turned to glare at me. “It’s Rikasya.”

“Come on, it’s so long to say,” I teased, smirking. She blushed and sighed, clearly annoyed but not enough to fight me on it.

“Yeah, fine. But don’t call me that in front of my mom. She doesn’t like people getting too familiar with us.”

“And how about my dad?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your dad and my mom are dating, so he gets to break her rules sometimes. But you? You’re just a kid.”

“So are you.”

She looked at me with some annoyance, reminding me of those tsunderes.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“ So what do you want?”

“Ah yeah. What are you? Like your class”

“ I don’t know. I need a type of skills to get info from a target, because my mom can’t”

Rika huffed and picked up her pace, and that was that for our morning banter. School passed by quickly. I talked with Rika everyday in the mornings to go to school, and frankly, middle school was a breeze for someone like me who already lived through it once. But then, everything changed when I hit ten years old.

----------------------------------------

It was my birthday, but the celebration was underwhelming. Just me and Dad—and honestly, I preferred it that way. Carol wasn’t there, and neither was Rika. Good. Less awkwardness.

The cake sat on the table. It was simple. Normal. Not like the cakes my mom used to make, but better than nothing.

“Well, Daryn,” Dad said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “This cake represents your first step into adulthood.”

I stared at him blankly. “I’m ten.”

“And?” he replied with a smirk. “At your age, my dad dragged me to work instead of celebrating my birthday. You’re lucky you have a cake.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, the words sour on my tongue.

But then he dropped the bombshell.

“Now that you’re ten and officially a man, you’re going to start working with me at the construction site.”

Wait. Construction site? My heart sank. Was he serious? My forehead started sweating.

“Don’t worry,” he continued, mistaking my silence for enthusiasm. “It’ll be like paid training. I’ll give you small chores, and you’ll earn some money. In this world, without a mother, you need to learn how to earn your bread with your own hands.”

“Can I refuse?” I asked weakly.

“Of course not.”

After school, dad picked me up and drove me straight to the construction site. The moment we arrived, he turned to me with a broad grin.

“Alright, your first mission is simple. See all those sandbags in the back of the truck? There’s about twenty of them. You’re going to unload them and place them at each marked spot. Take your time, but I expect it to be done in an hour.”

“Sure,” I said, my voice flat.

“And once you’re done, I’ll introduce you to your best friend: the shovel.”

Shovel? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Carrying the sandbags was easy—at least for the first ten minutes. I managed two sandbags, one at a time, each costing me five minutes of sheer struggle. My arms burned, and my shoulders ached.

"This is so difficult," I muttered, already regretting this so-called "training." I took the chance to read that the weight of each sandbag is sixteen kilograms.

“No wonder I am dying…” I murmur to myself while I keep carrying a sandbag.

I looked over at my dad. He was carrying cement bags twice the size of my sandbags—three bags per shoulder. The man was a beast.

“Hurry up! You’ve still got thirty-eight left,” he shouted, his voice carrying the authority of someone who’d been through much worse.

By the time I finished, it had taken me two hours. My breath came in short gasps, and I was drenched in sweat. My legs wobbled, and nausea clawed at my stomach.

I wanted to quit. Right there.

“Come on, next step,” Dad said, ignoring my obvious state of near-collapse.

“Back in my day, we’d get the whip if we slowed down.”

He tossed me a wooden stick with a metal scoop at the end.

“This is a shovel,” he announced, as if presenting a treasure.

I stared at it, unimpressed.

“Would be your best friend,” he continued, “in good times and bad. The shovel never lets you down. It's a proof of your manhood.”

He spoke with a sparkle in his eye, as if this worn, dirty tool was the answer to life’s mysteries.

“There are all kinds of shovels—trench shovels, post hole diggers, spades…” He droned on with the enthusiasm of a salesman at a tool convention.

“And this baby right here? This is a round point shovel. Perfect for the job!”

“Dad, this thing is filthy,” I complained, holding the grimy handle at arm’s length.

“Don’t be a baby. Look over there.” He pointed to a patch of rocky ground with a pile of dirt next to it. “See those rocks? And the dirt? Now, you’re going to use the shovel to clear the dirt away from the rocks. Make some space between them.”

“Ah… okay,” I said, thinking it sounded reasonable.

“Easy, right? Now, keep going until you hit the white mark.”

“White mark?”

“Yeah, it’s about a mile from here. Try to finish in an hour.”

A mile?! My stomach sank.

The shovel felt heavy in my hands—or maybe it was just the body of a ten-year-old with noodle arms. Every scoop of dirt was a struggle, and I could feel every muscle in my body protesting. By the time I made my first foot of progress, I was already questioning my life choices.

The trench shovel and I were going to be spending a lot of time together.

But Dad was watching, his arms crossed, his expression unwavering. To him, this wasn’t just work. It was a rite of passage. And like it or not, I had to endure it.

I spent the rest of the shift in it. we had to leave and I only had finished ¾ of the mile.

That first day, I did something unthinkable for my former life: I fell asleep before 9 PM. Exhaustion wrapped itself around me, and I sank into the bed like a stone in a pond. For the first time in my existence, I couldn’t fight the call of sleep.

This so-called training became a routine—a grueling one. Six hours a day, three days a week. My body ached in places I didn’t even know could hurt. Yet, every two weeks, I received my first payment.

Fifteen silver coins.

“Dad,” I complained, holding the small pouch of coins in my hand, “you promised me 20 silver. And honestly, 15 isn’t worth all the work I’m doing.”

Dad didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his chair, his stern eyes fixed on me.

“Daryn, you took almost twice the time I gave you for each task. I pay you for labor, not for the day. Based on your output, it’s five silver coins a day. And be lucky I’m paying you at all. My dad made me worked like a donkey for three years without a single coin given.”

Always with the dad type of response, it is like he did not have a better excuse.

I grumbled under my breath. “How much do you get paid per day?”

“Me? Around 60 silver coins, five days a week. That’s 120 silver every two weeks. And before you start complaining again, I’m one of the best workers at the company. Every year, they increase my pay by 4 silver coins. That’s hard-earned respect, boy.”

Of course, his boss probably adored him for killing his back while raking in profits. My dad would break his body for every coin, sweating and toiling while the boss sat back and counted his earnings.

From that day on, my dad picked me after school three day per week.

The thing that bothered me the worst is that my muscles still hurt, it was like hell for the first couple of months.