The weekend arrived, and Carol and my dad had left us behind, leaving only a box of cereal for us. Rika, who usually woke up late, was a bit taken aback by the change in routine.
"Where’s my mom?" she asked, groggily rubbing her eyes.
"They went on a date or something," I replied, trying to sound casual as I continued spooning cereal into my bowl.
Rika huffed and wandered into the kitchen, opening cupboards and looking for something else—her mom’s usual stocked-up stash of food, no doubt. It was only a matter of time before she realized the situation.
"Did you eat the food my mom left?" she asked, her voice tinged with an almost imperceptible sense of entitlement.
"I’m eating cereal," I responded flatly. "They saved us cereal."
"Cereal? I don’t eat that," she said, frowning in distaste. "I want my strawberry yogurt, organic, and my bread, 100% natural. It has to be here, but I don’t see it."
"Well, I don’t know. Complain to your mom when she gets back," I muttered, continuing to eat my own cereal without a care.
It was less than an hour later when I heard her stomach growling loudly from the next room. She clearly wasn’t used to the empty cupboards and lack of luxury food at her disposal.
"If you're hungry, eat," I called out from the kitchen.
"I’m not hungry," she snapped back, though her voice sounded strained, as if the hunger was getting to her.
I couldn't resist the temptation to bother her. "I remember once you told me I was a kid, maybe you're right, but right now, you’re acting like a spoiled brat."
Her eyes flashed, and she shot back, “Huh? At least I’m the one who will go to a prestigious university in the kingdom.”
I couldn’t help but smirk, knowing the truth. Oh, poor soul. If only she knew.
"While you, Daryn, will be stuck eating cereal for the rest of your life!" she retorted with her eyes closed.
I chuckled, trying not to look too amused. "Aha."
She did not hold back her fire sour attitude and she came to the kitchen.
"Do you think you're so cool, huh?" she continued, clearly growing more irritated. "My mom already told me about your low grades."
I didn’t care about her jabs. The truth was, I knew exactly where things were headed. She had no idea that her spot at that prestigious university was already in jeopardy. It would be interesting to see the look on her face when the truth came crashing down—when she found out someone else was going to take her place, and she was the one left behind.
During the night Carol and my dad returned, Rika was pouting, her lips curled into a sulky frown. I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh—her expression was pure comedy. As my parents stepped out of the car, I noticed something odd. The backseat was open, and there was someone else in the car.
A boy, about my age, with short dark green hair and sharp yellow eyes. His glasses gleamed under the porch light, and his clothes were pristine—new, even. I could tell my dad had spent money on him. Clothes, food, probably even his personal grooming—everything had to be perfect for the prodigy he had just brought into our home.
"Mom, I need more of my yogurt, it got emptied!," Rika whined, completely ignoring the stranger sitting in the car behind them. She was still caught up in her own little world of organic food and spoiled expectations.
I almost wanted to chuckle, but then I realized that this new kid was more than just another addition to the family. I knew why he was here. And once Rika figured it out, she’d wish she never complained about yogurt.
As my dad and Carol helped him out of the car, Rika’s eyes never left the backseat, where the boy was.
Carol was the first to speak, her voice oddly calm as she tried to shield Rika from the truth. "Not now, Rika," she said, pushing her daughter aside. "Listen to this."
Dad cleared his throat, standing tall with a proud grin. "Everyone, this is Lucian. He’ll be your new adoptive brother."
I watched Rika’s jaw drop. She seemed to be in shock, as if something had just broken her reality. For a moment, I almost felt bad for her.
"Why do we need another kid?" Rika spat, clearly upset. "And an adoptive one at that? “
Carol interrupted before Dad had a chance to explain himself, her tone cool and unbothered. "Rika, this boy—Lucian—deserves a family too. We’re a good family, and that’s all that matters."
I could already see Rika’s frustrations bubbling over, but she wasn’t done yet. It seems her will was big enough to confront her mother. She crossed her arms, her face scrunching in disbelief. "But my yogurt?"
I tried to hold the chuckle I did with both hands. Can’t believe it all that matters for her was her material wishes, but then.
I felt a flicker of something cold in the air as Carol’s face hardened. "No more yogurt, Rika," Carol said. "Lucian was expensive, so you’ll have to eat what we give you. That includes cereal."
The silence that followed could’ve been cut with a knife. I could see Rika’s world crashing around her in real time—the realization that the golden treatment she had always been accustomed to was about to crumble. Her face went pale as the words hit her. I had to fight to keep the grin off my face.
Lucian was supposed to be the future. The kid who could take all the spotlight, all the attention. The family would pour their hopes into him, treating him like their second chance, their golden child. What would that make me? Would I even matter when he was around?
I glanced at him, standing there quietly, probably confused by the whole situation. I doubted he even realized what he was being set up for. No, he didn’t know yet. He would, soon enough. He’d be the one to carry the family’s hopes. He’d be the one my parents would look to for success.
In the middle of my thoughts my dad spoke again, now problems related to me.
“Oh yeah, since we can’t pack many lunches for school, Daryn, you’ll be working with me full-time,” my dad announced with a gruff tone. His excuse sounded weak—many lunches? Really? Are we that broke now? I couldn’t help but roll my eyes internally.
And there it was. Without even saying a word, Lucian had already done more damage to me than Carol ever did. But I knew who was behind this—Carol. I could almost see her malice curling at the corners of her lips, feeding ideas to my dad like poison.
"Of course, I’ll pay you," Dad added, his voice thick with that no-nonsense authority I hated. "But it’s time to face facts, son. You suck at school."
I opened my mouth to argue, to say something about how I wanted to become an adventurer, but before I could finish my sentence, I saw Dad’s fist clench, his patience clearly running thin. He was ready to make a point with his hands if I pushed him too far.
I bit back my words. “Fine, sounds reasonable.”
"Five days a week, and I’ll pay you 8 silver coins per day until you get better. But I’m not treating you like my son now, Daryn. It’ll be more like a worker. It’s not like the training I’ve been giving you. That’s why your pay is higher." His voice grew colder with each word, like he was talking to a stranger instead of his own son.
“Good,” I responded flatly, already feeling the weight of his words sink in.
I glanced at Lucian, who hadn’t flinched at all, not even a blink. He stood there like some cold, detached statue. Was he really a prodigy, or was he just playing the part of a perfect, innocent little pawn, deceiving everyone with his stoic silence just to secure a steady meal and a roof over his head?
When our eyes met, I felt his gaze on me—calm, calculating. For a moment, it felt like we were sharing some unspoken understanding, but it was fleeting. Then he took a step toward us, his eyes steady, his movements smooth.
“Nice to meet you, my siblings,” Lucian said, his voice unnervingly perfect. “I am Lucian Lustria Rubyforge from now on. I hope we can forge bonds that are unbreakable.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Nice words, sure. But his accent was stiff, and the way he said it felt scripted—like he’d rehearsed those lines a hundred times before, as if he was just going through the motions. His presence was so calculated it made my skin crawl. There was something off about him, like he was playing a role too well, too perfectly.
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The change:
The car rattled to a stop, and Dad turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Remember, once you step out of this car, you're just another worker. No special treatment. And don’t call me 'dad'—you’ll only make things harder on yourself."
“But they’ve already seen me… how would this make any difference?” I protest, my voice tinged with frustration.
“First,” Dorion interrupts sharply, leaning in with an air of mockery, “I never told anyone you were my son. Do you know how embarrassing it’d be to admit that a noodle-armed weakling like you works here? No, I told them you were the son of an old friend.”
He winks at me, as though expecting my approval for his blatant dismissal of our connection.
“Second,” he continues, his tone dripping with condescension, “respect is earned, boy. I didn’t want you swaggering around the construction site saying, ‘I’m the boss’s son, treat me like royalty!’ like some pathetic wuss.”
I swallow my retort and nod, suppressing the sting of his words. “Got it, Mr. Dorion.”
His lips twitched in what might have been a smirk, but it was gone too quickly to tell. "Good. And one more thing—don’t trust anyone too easily. People aren’t always what they seem."
The advice stuck with me as we walked into the site, the crisp morning air biting at my face. It wasn’t long before Dad flagged down another worker—a guy maybe three years older than me.
"Daryn, this is Josh. You’ll be working with him today. Do what he says."
Josh nodded at me, his handshake firm but brisk. "Let’s go."
I followed him to a patch of dirt littered with rocks. He handed me a strange tool—sleek and heavy, with glowing runes etched into its surface.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Jackhammer. We use it to punch holes in the ground. Eight-by-eight squares, fifteen inches deep." He gestured to a stack of tools nearby. "I’ll mark the spots. Your job is to clear the dirt , keep the rocks out of the holes with the shovel and then use the jackhammer to make the holes. Got it?"
"Sure," I said, pretending confidence I didn’t feel.
When it was time to use it, I flipped the switch, but nothing happened. The jackhammer sat silent in my hands. My stomach knotted. Was I already screwing this up?
"Hey, Josh?"
He jogged over, frowning. "What’s wrong?"
"It’s not working. I pressed the button, but..."
He sighed, taking it from me. "It’s a magic-powered jackhammer. Didn’t anyone teach you magic?"
I shook my head. "Not really."
Josh snorted, half amused. "Figures. Go grab one with a plug from the greenhouse over there. Try not to break anything on the way."
As I walked off, I caught a couple of workers watching me. Their laughter carried on the cold wind, pricking at my pride.
Later that day I realized that they use this magic jack hammer because it is cheaper to buy and maintain than their old counterparts.
Doing this for hours made my arms ache, a sharp pain shooting through with every scoop of the shovel. I barely noticed Josh walking over until he called out.
"Come on, grab your shovel!"
I turned to see him standing next to a pile of rocks that had just been dumped from a truck. He held his shovel like it was an extension of his arm, already scooping rocks with practiced ease.
"We’re filling this space with rocks," he said, not looking up. "Just to make it look good—client's request. Help me unload this."
I tried to keep pace, but Josh was faster, his shovel moving like clockwork while I struggled to keep up. My arms screamed with every lift, but his voice was sharper than the pain.
"Come on, faster! Aren’t you a man?"
By the time we finished, I was exhausted, but I knew the day wasn’t over. Many trucks rolled in, each truck with different bags, sand, cements and other materials. The air buzzed with activity as more workers—older teens like Josh—gathered around. I followed Josh to one of the trucks.
"The garden area needs these soil bags," he said. "Grab as many as you can and follow me."
Each bag weighed 27 Kg. For a 15-year-old barely getting used to this work, it felt like lifting the world. I managed one at a time, my legs wobbling with every step, while Josh hefted one onto each shoulder like it was nothing. Around me, other workers hauled bricks, cement, and soil like it was routine.
"Why are we carrying this to the garden?" I asked between breaths. "I thought we were construction workers."
*Josh smirked. "We are. But we’re chalans. You know what that means?"
I shook my head.
"It means we do the grunt work—the jobs that don’t take much skill. Shoveling, cleaning, fetching water, carrying stuff. Whatever needs doing, we do it. And that includes hauling soil for the garden."
I could feel the stark difference between training and full-time work with every bead of sweat trickling from my forehead, sliding down my cheeks, and stinging the corners of my eyes.
“Focus, we don't have all day” Josh said with a strong voice but not yelling
I didn’t argue. I just bent my knees, grabbed another bag, and kept moving.
We did it until no soil bags were left.
My favorite part of the day was always the food. I walked over to where my dad was standing with the lunch bag he brought in the morning.
“Mr. Dorion, where’s my lunch?” I asked, half-joking.
He looked at me without missing a beat. “Lunch? You’re an adult now, Mr. Daryn. You should’ve brought your own.”
I just stood there for a second, confused and hungry. God, how much I hated that old man sometimes.
I sat in a corner trying to avoid debris when Josh came over, sensing my frustration.
“Let me guess, first time doing this?” he asked, handing me a soda and a piece of bread.
“No, I’ve worked before," I muttered, feeling embarrassed.
He raised an eyebrow. "I meant full-time, like this. It’s a whole different league, trust me. I forgot my lunch for the first time too."
I took the bread and soda from him, my stomach grumbling louder than my thoughts. As I chewed, the bread tasted like the most glorious thing in the world.
“A piece of advice I can give you: Buy a packet of sodas and bread. It’ll save you money. Trust me.”
I took a big bite, realizing just how much I'd underestimated the exhaustion of this job. "You’re not a bad person after all, Josh.”
Josh gave a half smile. “I never have been. But remember, out here, there are no friends. We focus on the job. But that doesn’t mean we are heartless."
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Carrying sand, taking out dirt from countless holes, running around bringing water to the crew—it felt endless. But I was getting used to it. The work was hard, yes, but I was starting to find a rhythm.
When the workday ended, I still had that familiar ache in my muscles. But now, it wasn’t just exhaustion—it was a feeling of progress, of something slowly changing in me.
That night, barely holding into it before collapsing I decided to do what Josh said. I went to the store and bought a pack of six sodas and a bag of bread, just like Josh said. It wasn’t healthy, but it worked. I needed to save money; I couldn’t keep relying on my dad for every little thing. Every time I looked at him, something in me burned with anger. It was that quiet, simmering kind of anger—the kind that didn’t go away. The kind that made me resent the fact that I was even here.
I could almost feel Carol’s influence creeping into my thoughts. She was the kind of woman who'd eventually make my dad tell me I had to pay for my dinner. It hadn’t happened yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
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Months passed, and each day felt like a repetition of the last. But somewhere along the way, I started to notice the changes in myself. At first, the job was unbearable. I’d be so tired after work that all I could do was fall asleep. But now, I am stronger. The sandbags, the shovels—they weren’t nearly as hard to carry anymore. The jackhammer, which used to shake me to the bone, had become easy. The skin on my hands wasn’t just peeling anymore—it was toughening up, calluses forming where blisters used to burst. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. My body, once quick to tire, started holding up longer under the grind. The bruises that once painted my arms and legs started disappearing, my skin turning rougher, stronger.
But more than just getting better at the work, I was starting to see something else: I was changing. The only thing that did not change was always coming with dirty clothes after work.
After a grueling week of work, I stood in front of the mirror, fresh out of the shower. Beads of water clung to my skin, tracing the outline of muscles I hadn’t known I could build. My arms—once frail and unimpressive—now carried strength, their cords of muscle telling the story of countless hours of labor. My core, faintly outlined beneath my skin, hinted at the start of something I’d never seen before: abs. Real abs. Not just wishful thinking or tricks of the light.
I leaned closer to the mirror, staring at the person before me. This was a rare moment—I usually avoided my reflection. What was the point? But now… now, I couldn’t look away. My hand moved almost on its own, fingers brushing against the skin of my face. My features, sharper than before, stared back at me with an intensity I hadn’t noticed. The faint pimples that once dotted my cheeks were nearly gone, leaving smooth skin behind.
It’s the first time I paid attention to the color of my eyes, blue like my mother’s. These have their own brightness, but I never noticed that they were so beautiful.
For the first time in forever, I smirked to myself. Smirked.
“What’s up, handsome?” I said aloud, winking at myself.
It was the first time I’d ever called myself that, and for once, it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt real. The change wasn’t just in my body—it was in my mind, too. The potential I’d always dreamed about was finally breaking free. I wasn’t there yet, but I was on my way.
I straightened, taking one last look in the mirror. This wasn’t vanity; it was proof. Every day of backbreaking labor, every bruise, every ache—it all led to this. I was building something better, something unshakable.
That night, lying on the thin mattress of my rented room, I decided to push even further. With the exhaustion of work still heavy on my body, I dropped to the floor. A set of crunches. Then another. Then another. My core burned, but I welcomed it. The pain was proof that I was moving forward. Night after night, I did it again, chipping away at the old version of myself to reveal the new one beneath.
This wasn’t just about strength. It wasn’t about looking good. It was about becoming someone who could take on the world and win.
Each day was another step toward that person. And I was determined to meet him.