The night was quiet, and my body still ached from the fight.

"Are you going to keep crying like a baby?" Rika asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not crying. My eyes just hurt," I replied defensively.

She smirked. "You like to talk big, but look at you—nothing more than a whining little baby."

"You could be nicer, you know," I muttered.

"To a peasant like you? Not a chance."

I got up, brushing off the dirt, and started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Rika asked, her tone sharp.

"To make a bed on the floor, I guess. I can’t sleep in the house," I said, shoulders slumping.

Before I could take another step, she grabbed the back of my shirt.

"You’re even more pathetic with that loser talk," she said coldly.

"It’s useless," I muttered. "I can’t beat him."

Rika hummed, her expression unreadable. "Hmph."

"A fight? Sure, strength is important, I won’t sugarcoat that. But there are a lot of other factors that can decide the outcome," she said, her tone still sharp, but there was something almost reassuring in her words.

Somehow, her blunt honesty shook me out of my insecurities. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, her words carried a strange kind of encouragement. She left with a sour expression on her face.

I found myself heading to the park where Mortaz and I usually trained. He was already there, running through his warm-ups.

“Damn, kid,” he said, noticing me approaching. “What the hell happened to you?”

I sat down on a bench, letting out a sigh. “I got beaten, what else?”

Mortaz raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is the other guy worse, or...?”

“Nope,” I muttered. “I got beaten. Completely defeated.”

Mortaz’s smirk faded. “Ah, I see. So why don't you go back home?”

I clenched my fists. I hate to admit it, but the old man isn’t just strong—he knows how to throw punches. His strikes were deliberate, powerful, and precise. How can I do the same? That question wouldn’t leave my mind.

“Do you know how to fight?”

“Hmm, a little,” he said, leaning back casually. “I know the basics—jabs, hooks, footwork. But I’m better with my legs. Taekwondo.”

I stood up, my resolve clear. “Could you teach me, please?”

Mortaz crossed his arms, studying me for a moment. “Sure, kid. But you know what that means, right? Training’s going to get tougher. It’ll be a heavy weight on your body. You think you’re ready for that?”

“I am,” I said, meeting his gaze. “No doubt about it.”

He grinned. “Alright, then. Let’s start with an hour of calisthenics, then thirty minutes of sprints.”

“Sprints?” I repeated, a little thrown off.

“Yeah,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “You’re going to need stamina, and a lot of it. Fighting isn’t just brute strength; it’s like a sport. You can’t win without endurance. The stamina you build working construction won’t cut it in a fight that your life depends on. Once you’ve got the stamina, then we’ll move on to kicks and punches.”

I knew staying out late night was risky, it might interrupt my sleep schedule. My body was already under constant strain from work. But I had an idea. Jogging to the job site—it sounded insane, considering it was a 20-minute drive by car. That had to be almost three hours on foot. Still, if I could pull it off, I’d build stamina and save time for training with Mortaz in the night.

After two hours of intense calisthenics and sprinting, Mortaz left for the night. Exhausted, I collapsed onto the playground slide, using it as a makeshift bed.

The next morning, cold water splashed over my face, shocking me awake. My dad loomed over me, holding an empty bucket. His expression was as gruff as ever.

“Wake up,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do.”

I sat up, muscles aching but my determination unshaken. I glanced at my dad and clenched my fists, though I didn’t let him see.

Someday soon, I thought, I’ll surpass you. I can feel it.

I stood, ready for another grueling day, because I knew one thing for certain: nobody could stop my potential.

As I entered the car my dad threw me a phone, it was surprising he bought me something.

“ It was hard to find you this morning, it is better if you have your own phone. Use it with responsibility” I nodded and we headed to work.

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

The Burning Path:

As the months passed, I fulfilled my promise and began waking up at 4.30 a.m. to jog to work. At first, it was brutal. My legs felt like lead, and my chest burned as though my lungs were being squeezed by a vice. Carrying sandbags back and forth at work had always been exhausting, but this was something else entirely—a different kind of pain. It wasn’t just tired muscles; it was the kind of deep exhaustion that sucked the energy out of your bones. Some mornings, I’d end up throwing up what little dinner I’d managed to eat the night before.

But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken. Not in this life, not in the last one. This was my fight, and I wasn’t giving up.

My dad never missed a chance to ridicule me during the year.

“Jogging to work? What’s the point? You’re killing yourself for nothing. Idiot.”

His words stung, but I bit my tongue. I couldn’t argue with him—not yet, at least. I just nodded, kept my head down, and kept going. No matter how much I hurt, I refused to be late for work. The thought of being late, and the punishment that would come with it, drove me forward.

The first few weeks were hell. But after a couple of months, something changed. My legs didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The soreness in my muscles started to fade, replaced by a newfound lightness in my steps. I no longer had to stop in the middle of the road to catch my breath or wipe away tears of frustration. By then, jogging was just another part of my day.

I didn’t jog back home during the nights after the job was done—I wasn’t reckless enough to push my body that hard after a full day of work. But it felt good to know that all the effort, all the pain, was worth something. I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was getting stronger.

My exercises with Mortaz were paying off, too. The pull-ups, the push-ups, the stretching—it was all working. I could jump higher, move faster, without breaking a sweat. My body felt alive in a way it never had before. Mortaz even gave me a list of simple, cheap foods to boost my energy. Apples, oranges, and other fruits became my new secret weapons, fueling my progress.

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

One day at work, Josh and I were assigned to unload ten railcars of sand. It was grueling work, but something in me itched for a challenge.

“Hey, Josh,” I said, grabbing my shovel. “Bet I can unload five cars faster than you.”

Josh smirked. “What’s gotten into you, kid? You think you’re some kind of hotshot now?”

“Maybe. Wanna find out?”

He snorted. “Fine. Loser buys lunch next week.”

At first, Josh kept pace, but by the time I emptied my third car, he was lagging behind, his shirt soaked with sweat.

“What the hell happened to you?” he panted, leaning against his shovel. While he finished his third card, he rushed. He spent too much stamina I guess since we both were at the same pace, he felt threatened at that moment and he lost control, going faster, but getting exhausted even more.

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging as I finished the fourth car. “I just got used to this.”

Josh shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a damn machine. This isn’t normal.”

During that day I change phone numbers with Josh and with some of the other chalanes as contacts for emergencies. They are not laughing anymore of me. I don't feel they respect me either, but they know now I can hold my ground now.

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

The eye of the curiosity:

With just two months left until I turn seventeen. It's a Saturday, and there’s no work today. I spent the morning doing nothing, trying to relax. Honestly, my last two birthdays were completely forgotten, so it’s not like I’m expecting anything special this year.

Rika was still in high school as a junior—and she had been talking about applying for a scholarship to help her pay for college. She seems really focused on her future. Julian, though? I barely had time to see him these days. He’s not a threat to me anymore since I’m no longer in school, but Rika keeps me updated. Apparently, he’s just a normal guy with regular interests—though he’s smart enough to already be getting offers to join the Wizards of the Right Hand, the kingdom’s most prestigious university for mages.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

As I sat on the sofa, a familiar round shape rolled into view, spinning like always.

“Pachesko,” I muttered.

“Daryn! What are you doing wasting your day like this?” he said, hovering over me.

“Wasting it?” I scoffed. “It’s my only day off.”

“Day off? This whole place is a prison, and you’re its most loyal prisoner!”

“I’m getting out of here soon,” I replied, my voice steady. “But not until I beat my dad.”

Pachesko froze mid-spin. “Wait… what did you just say?”

“You heard me. I’m going to defeat him.”

“No way,” Pachesko said, staring at me in disbelief. “Are you really Daryn? Where’s the kid who played video games and ran away from anything scary?”

“Still here, I guess,” I said with a small grin. “But I know I can’t take on knights, wizards, or anything big out there if I can’t handle a simple man like my dad.”

Pachesko floated closer, his tone suddenly serious. “You’re actually making sense for once. Weird, but okay.” He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “What I’m wondering is, why is it taking that old man so long with you? I get one beating, but it sounds like he’s already given you more than three lessons.”

“Well, he’s stronger than me. Even with my speed and stamina, it’s hard to keep up,” I admitted.

“Daryn,” Pachesko sighed, his voice tinged with exasperation, “did you forget what I told you in the womb?”

“Uh… actually, I barely remember,” I replied sheepishly.

“You can defeat someone with higher stats if you use the right skills,” Pachesko said pointedly.

“Skills?” I frowned, puzzled.

Pachesko groaned dramatically. “Let me ask you something. Have you even checked your skills yet?”

“Ah…” I scratched my head, suddenly recalling that I was supposed to be a researcher.

Pachesko let out an exasperated noise. “Sixteen years here, and you still don’t know how to open your menu? Close your eyes and focus, dummy!”

I sighed, feeling slightly embarrassed, but I did as he instructed. As soon as I closed my eyes and focused, a faint glow appeared in my mind. A menu materialized, floating in the darkness. I could see labels for Profile and Skills.

Eye of the Curious

“What the hell is this?”

“Your skill,” Pachesko said. “You can thank the gods or whatever for that one.” Pachesko said in an ironic tone.

I check my profile, I am Lv1 still with a bar of health, and a bar of of experience in the skill, and bar of mana.

“What does it do?”

“It lets you see basic info about people's names, categories, maybe a short description if you’re lucky. Go ahead, try it on me.”

I focused on him, activating the skill. But all I saw was a blurry mess.

“It’s not working,” I said, confused.

“Exactly,” Pachesko replied smugly. “I’ve got divine protection. It makes me immune to nosy abilities like that. So yeah, your skill? Good for you as a researcher but pretty useless as a fighter.”

Beneath the menu, I noticed a section labeled “Stats,” but it was locked.

"Why can’t I check my own stats?" I asked, frowning.

"Yeah, it requires a premium account," Pachesko replied casually.

"What do you mean by that? This is a game!"

"Well, technically it isn’t," he said, shrugging. "Since if you die, you actually die for real—unless someone revives you, of course. If stats were freely visible, people would become too self-aware of their own lives."

I blinked, completely baffled. "What does that even mean?"

"Think about it," he continued, talking too fast for me to fully process. "You’ve got nerves, muscles, and a body that reacts to everything, right? so you dont need them"

He saw my blank expression and sighed. "Anyway, you can unlock it with a skill that lets you search for information—like your Eye of Curiosity. But sadly, it’s still a low-level skill yet."

"Wait, then explain-"

"I am bouncing ball now, not a free giving answer ball , so do other things than get free information out of me."

I ignored his tone and decide to turned toward the hall.

“ I want to test it out the skill once more”

I spotted Rika at the table, studying like always. Curious, I activated the skill again.

Name: Rika

Category: Shaman

Description: A girl struggling with high school courses in voodoo and runes.

I blinked, surprised.

“Ey, Pachesko, what exactly is a category?”

I asked, still feeling confused by the whole idea.

“Why do you ask?” He raised an eyebrow, but his tone was still patient.

“I’ve never heard of a ‘Shaman’ category in my games,”

" Sometimes I really want to delete you because of your dumb questions!"

"Come on, just one more time!"

“Fine, that's because 'class' and 'category' are not the same, Daryn,” Pachesko replied. “A category is a broad concept, while a class is specific. The class someone belongs to can change, but their category remains fixed.”

I blinked, trying to understand.

“So, I can see someone's category, but their class is harder to determine?” I asked.

“Exactly. A class is more specific and detailed. It requires a deeper understanding. A category? Well, that's easier to spot.”

“I don’t get it.” I frowned, trying to piece together the difference. This felt like one of those game mechanics I had missed in all my years of playing.

Pachesko chuckled lightly, clearly not surprised by my confusion. “Let me break it down for you. Categories are the broad classifications. Think of them like… well, groups of professions. You’ve got your general types. Then, inside those categories, you get specific classes that define what you do within that type.”

He paused, letting the idea sink in. Then, he went on.

“For example, take these categories and their classes, some examples:

* Healer: Can branch into roles such as Priest, Priestess, or Wizard.

* Hero: Can get into the Swordmaster class.

* Rogue: Can specialize as a Thief, Assassin, and similar roles.

* Shaman: Can get into Spirit Communicator, Wizard, or Exorcist.

* Farmer: Can transition into Agriculturist, Wizard, or Warrior.

* Warrior: Can develop into Swordsman or Bowman.

* Researcher: Specializes as a Craftsman or Scientist.

These are broad categories, and within each of them, there are many specific classes that describe someone's exact role.”

I nodded slowly, trying to visualize it.

“So, a person could be a ‘Shaman,’ but that doesn’t tell me their exact abilities?”

“Correct,” Pachesko replied. “A Shaman could have many classes—maybe Spirit Contact, Exorcist, or even Wizard if they specialize in the arcane side of spiritual work. A category just tells you where a person fits in the bigger picture. It’s their foundation.”

I stared at him, still trying to fully understand.

“But what about me? I don’t have a class yet…”

“And that’s fine,” he reassured me with a small grin. “Don’t sweat it. A class is something you choose later. It’s like a more focused path within your category. But even without a class, you still belong to a category. And your category will shape what kind of skills you can learn.”

“So, no class means I’m a jack of all trades?” I mused, feeling like a bit of an outcast in the world of rigid classifications.

“ For me a class is more like a label to get a job, so basically it is like you don't have the requirements to work in a place with the required label.” Pachesko chuckled again, leaning back.

“If you have small experience in different areas, you will be like a jack of trades but of poor bad taste, in a specific scenario you barely will do your role given to you, or worse you can screw it. So getting a class will increase your set of specific skills, besides your general skills of category.”

I took a deep breath, finally getting the gist of things.

“Okay, so with a class, I can specialize and get better faster…”

"And-"

“No more questions, you need to get out of this place and find out for yourself!”

I sat back, trying to absorb it all. My mind was racing—categories, classes, job roles. There was a lot to take in, but it made sense. If I wanted to grow, I’d have to find a class that suited me. But for now, I had to figure out where I fit in the world.

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

That night, after we ate our dinner, my dad stood up and started talking.

“Family, I have something to say. Someone in the family has gone beyond my expectations.”

Wait, is he talking about me? No, it must be Julian.

“I’ve been shown that I was wrong. I shouldn’t have judged a book by its cover.”

Oh god, he’s talking about me. My efforts, my new expectation of life was actually seen by my dad?

“And today, I want to tell him something. I bet he didn’t even realize I knew.”

He said he!

“Julian, congratulations. You’re going to the University of the Wizards of the Right Hand!”

My soul just left my body. Typical dad, always praising Julian. With a mix of annoyance and happiness, I hugged my adoptive brother.

“Julian, sorry I doubted you. I never thought you’d be this smart,” I muttered, feeling the awkwardness of the situation.

“I’m surprised you knew about this, dad,” Julian said, a grin spreading across his face.

“Julian, we got the letter by messenger. We were so excited, we couldn’t hold it in,” Carol chimed in.

“I received offers from many universities, but the Right Hand is the best choice for me,” Julian replied, looking at the rest of the family with pride.

“Yes, my son, don’t worry. Any expenses, I’ll take care of them,” dad added with a smile.

Yeah, dad, you’ll pay for another son’s future while your real son is left to rot.

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

Later that night, I went to the park again to meet Mortaz. We did our usual routine—push-ups, stretching, pull-ups (both one- and two-handed), and explosive jumps. He showed off his pull-up with a flip again.

“I want to try,” I said, feeling the fire of frustration and determination rise inside me.

“Ah, I think that’s too advanced for you,” Mortaz warned.

“ I can handle it,” I insisted.

I tried—and failed, of course.

“Your body’s not coordinated yet, Daryn. Don’t worry about it,” Mortaz said, offering a hand to help me up.

But I wasn’t done. I kept trying. The second time, I failed again, but something inside me snapped. On the third try, I pulled myself up and completed the flip. I did it again, and again, until I hit ten reps.

Mortaz’s jaw dropped.

“You… you actually did it,” he said, his voice filled with surprise.

“Why so surprised? You can do it too,” I said, grinning with the rush of adrenaline.

“Yeah, but… don’t you realize it’s not just the pull-up with a flip? Your whole body is getting stronger. You can do 20 more push-ups than I can,” he replied, clearly impressed.

I remembered a time when Mortaz struggled to hit 113 push-ups while I easily surpassed that with 133.

We continued our usual exercises for a while. Then, just before he left, Mortaz stopped and looked at me seriously.

“I don’t know what your goal is, but I think you’re more than ready for whatever comes next,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

“I’m not saying stop, Daryn. Always improve, but something’s different about you. The hunger in your eyes over these past few years—it’s not the same. What’s really going on in your head?”

“It’s hard to explain… but thanks for everything. I don’t think I’ll be coming back after tonight.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to become an adventurer.”

Mortaz blinked. “Ah… what?”

“Something wrong?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, it’s just… you’re more than capable. But why risk your life like that?” he asked, confusion in his eyes.

“Let’s just say I have a mission to fulfill.”

With that, Mortaz only did but nodded, his clock alarm was a sign that he had to leave.