Ryan may have just become the youngest “child laborer” in history.
Though by actual age he was well into adulthood, in the eyes of Herta—who measured lifespans in centuries—he was still a baby.
A black-hearted child laborer who got nagged by Herta dolls to go to work every day.
The space station construction had already begun.
Massive prefabricated components were stacked like building blocks in the temporary assembly zone.
An engineering team from the Interastral Peace Corporation was stationed nearby, their heavy machinery rumbling constantly.
Ryan’s workspace was a separate warehouse-cum-workshop that Herta had designated for him.
It was piled with base materials transferred from the main warehouse.
Except for a few items marked high-risk requiring special approval, he could use anything freely.
When supplies ran low, he’d submit a request and Herta would approve it quickly enough.
The problem was, when Ryan first opened the space station component manufacturing blueprints—which Herta claimed were “idiot-proof”—he felt dumber than a rock.
The dense symbols, the intricate energy circuits, and charts labeled with things like “imaginary adaptability parameters” and “phase folding tolerance” made his head spin.
“What the hell is any of this…”
He stared blankly at the blueprints for half a day before finally admitting that working alone in isolation wasn’t realistic.
Some large structural components still required professional engineering teams for manufacturing and initial assembly.
And so began the comedy.
The IPC’s supposedly experienced engineering team could read every symbol on the blueprints and operate precision manufacturing equipment following standard procedures.
But every time they tried assembling key components, something went wrong.
Energy circuits wouldn’t connect.
Phase shifts occurred.
Material stress distributed unevenly, creating structural weaknesses.
They were like musicians with world-class sheet music who couldn’t find the right pitch—always producing harsh noise.
No choice.
Herta made an executive decision: all core component final assembly and calibration must be completed near her laboratory on Canglan Star.
So the half-finished components were shipped continuously to Ryan’s workshop, where he performed the final “precision processing” and assembly.
Ryan’s workflow quickly fell into a routine.
First, he’d act as quality inspector, scanning every delivered component with electromagnetic perception to check for defects.
Problems found?
Mark them and send them back for rework.
If the engineering team claimed material limitations or process constraints? This story is hosted at g.com.
No problem—Ryan would handle it.
He’d directly manipulate electromagnetic fields to rearrange materials at the molecular level, forcibly increasing purity.
Or use his abilities to guide internal stress distribution, eliminating structural flaws.
In his hands, defective parts often came back to life.
As for assembly—after watching the engineering team fumble for a month and experiencing countless failures and adjustments, Ryan finally got the hang of it.
He hadn’t understood every theory in the blueprints.
Rather, through observation and practice, he’d grasped “how these components should fit together correctly.” It felt like suddenly unlocking something fundamental.
The abstract lines and symbols on the blueprints became dynamic, assemblable models in his mind’s eye.
Like a super puzzle.
He could also super-disassemble, then reassemble.
Eventually, he kicked out the engineering team entirely, finding them too inefficient and their presence disruptive to the stable electromagnetic environment of his workspace.
They were only allowed near when heavy components needed moving or pure physical labor was required.
“If the magnetic field gets disrupted and assembly precision drops, and something explodes—you taking responsibility?”
Whenever an engineer tried to object or observe his methods, Ryan shut them down with that line.
Considering the several small-scale energy leaks that had occurred before, the engineering team could only grumble and back off.
So the giant assembly platform often featured this sight: countless metal components, energy conduits, and lattice units of all sizes floating in mid-air, guided by invisible hands into their designated positions, fitting together seamlessly.
Complex energy circuits lit up the moment he connected them to power, running smoothly.
His earlier little inventions unexpectedly proved useful too.
Like that device he’d used to weave aurora silk—he still didn’t know its exact purpose, but Herta had marked installation points for it, so it must be useful.
Even he hadn’t expected that seemingly impractical ability to find a place in such a major project.
The IPC people naturally noticed this strange young man with bizarre abilities and extraordinary efficiency.
They tried contacting Ryan to purchase his techniques or poach him outright, but he refused every time.
Madam Herta herself declined on his behalf, citing his status as her assistant.
Still, Ryan’s name circulated within certain company circles.
Anyone who became a genius’s assistant had to be exceptional.
With Ryan’s near-cheat-level participation, the project advanced at astonishing speed.
When the first phase completed, statistics showed that nearly a quarter of all modules had their final assembly and calibration completed independently by Ryan.
Looking at the holographic structure of the space station taking shape, and reflecting on months of nonstop “brick-laying,” Ryan rubbed his throbbing temples.
“Following these blueprints… studying propulsion and navigation systems… could I almost build a small spaceship myself?”
The thought excited him and wearied him at once.
The good news: his abilities were growing rapidly through practical application.
Half a year later, the core module assembly finally wrapped up.
The remaining work was mostly non-core sections that could be standardized—well within the IPC engineering team’s capabilities.
Ryan sat alone on the completed portion of the space station, legs dangling over the edge.
Above, that eternal green aurora still flowed across Canglan Star’s sky, day and night.
Five years.
This aurora, born of him, had kept him company for five full years.
From initial bewilderment to his current degree of control, an indescribable bond had formed between him and this light.
He slowly raised a hand toward the sky.
A thought stirred, and a small patch of aurora on the distant horizon shifted its flow, becoming more orderly.
He couldn’t control the entire aurora, but limited gathering or dispersal—that he could manage.
Ryan stretched lazily, sprawled across the station’s hull like a sunbathing cat, enjoying rare idleness.
A Herta doll lay beside him.
Suddenly, the little doll sat up with a start—like a fish flipping upright.
Madam Herta herself had come online.
The doll swept its purple eyes—which seemed capable of seeing through everything—over the construction progress, a hint of teasing in its tone: “Progress looks good. A tiny bit faster than expected. Seems someone got addicted to assembling parts?”
Ryan’s heart lurched.
That familiar opening line…
was she about to hand him new blueprints?
He could already see months of being welded to the assembly platform.
“This genius sees how hard you’ve been working,” the doll shifted tone, crossing its small arms, “and has decided to give you a vacation.”
Ryan froze, nearly convinced he was hallucinating.
Vacation?
From the genius who’d split a day into 48 hours if she could?
This was more shocking than Aeons showing up to do stand-up comedy.
“Your hometown, Aerido Star, is now under IPC management.” The doll pointed skyward with its tiny hand.
“There happens to be a transport ship heading there. Hitch a ride and take a look. For this genius’s sake, they won’t dare refuse you.”
Ryan followed the doll’s gesture, his gaze inevitably drawn to the green aurora shrouding the planet.
He murmured quietly:
“Going… outside?”