The Kids Are Growing Up Crooked!
Brad City. A massive metropolis dominated by the Big Daddy Family. Population around 30,000. Refugees pouring in from the Central Continent were just the start—infamous criminals and bandits from every continent, assassin guilds, heretics, demon worshippers, you name it. This was a crime city. If I had to compare it to modern Earth... the organizations operating on this North Continent were like the big cartels from Central and South America, the Italian Mafia, or maybe the Red Mafia? Batshit crazy guys who'd do anything if it turned a profit. Selling your soul to demons for power was table stakes; bootleg booze, human trafficking, black markets, outer god cults—the works.
Of course, people gotta live somewhere, so it wasn't all bad. Folks built families, ran shops, dabbled in the arts. The problem was, most of 'em had clawed their way up from the gutters at some point.
“Hey! Bring more booze!”
“Y-yes sir! Right away—!”
“That table over there's being a pain in the ass—tell 'em to shut the fuck up!”
“Who the hell said that?! Got a problem?!”
“Me, you little bitch! Quit yapping like a goddamn girl and come outside—fight me!”
“Ooooh! Fight, fight!”
“Kuhahaha! I bet on that drunk bastard winning!”
“Hahaha! Kill him!”
...Did I come here for nothing?
I was out on a walk with Mira and Shera, inspecting our Family turf. Over the past ten years, our crew had stirred up so much shit in this city that we were pretty infamous—no one who mattered messed with our territory. But it looked like some gutsy idiots had wandered into our business anyway.
Our Family numbered less than a hundred, but almost everyone could sling spells, and they were all multi-talented: swordplay basics up to marksmanship. Plus, most were early twenties at oldest—full of potential, like fresh green shoots with room to grow.
Crime world sprouts, maybe... Anyway, these guys look new. Fresh meat flooding into the city?
“Hey! Keep the disturbance down in the restaurant! If you've forgotten whose turf this is, I'll put a bullet in that thick skull!”
“What? You the security? Mind your own business and fuck off!”
BANG!
“Gahk!”
“Billy! You bastard...!”
“Kids! Kill those—!”
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Agh!”
“Uwaaak!”
“Aaaak!”
Nice~ Handling it just like we trained 'em.
Our protocol for trouble in Family businesses:
One: Warn 'em politely first.
Two: If they don't listen, shoot a limb.
Three: Still resisting? Kill 'em.
This North Continent was packed with scum from every land who'd committed every crime in the book. Talking it out nicely? Yeah, that never worked. Ten years living here taught me: Force down the ones who won't listen. Be polite if they play ball, ruthless if they push back. Letting shit slide just bred grudges and revenge down the line.
Best was collective punishment. Smart ones would chop off a finger, an arm, even the head of the offender and grovel. I'd let that slide. Ideal for me? Drag 'em alive so I could peel their faces off.
“Boss bro. Should we go kill those guys too?”
“Nah, don't kill 'em. Just break a limb or two, like our kids would.”
““Yessir~””
THOOM!
CRACK!
CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
AAAAAAGH!!!——
Mira and Shera jumped in, cracking shoulders and limbs with controlled strength. Problem solved. Time to enjoy some peace? Smash the interrupters with force, same as always.
...
“Sorry, Boss. New trash flooding in lately...”
“Forget it. No apologies. The idiots causing shit are the problem.”
“Got it. So, what brings you here?”
“Just checking business status. A walk. Anything else going on?”
“No, sir. We've already smacked down anyone in the area dumb enough to challenge us—no one's picking fights.”
Since settling here ten years ago, I'd picked up street urchins and beggars dying in alleys, raised 'em, and they naturally joined the Family. The guy kept bowing and apologizing nonstop.
Wasn't even his fault, but I couldn't stop him—our kids had this over-the-top loyalty thing going. Felt like I was some chaebol chairman.
“Goddamn it! I said quit it! You didn't do shit—why apologize? Enough. Any newbies stirring trouble at other spots today?”
“Y-yeah! It's spiked lately. Word from incoming customers: Central Continent's factions are gearing up for all-out war. Sharp merchants hiring mercs and adventurers to flee elsewhere. Rumors say even some nobles...”
“Tch, tch, tch... Rich bastards always bail when their necks are on the line. Same here as on Earth!”
“Huh? Earth?”
“Ah, sorry! Nothing. Keep up the good work. Report issues to Allen or Vanessa. Need backups? Say the word.”
“Yes, Boss!”
“Might as well eat while I'm here. What's the special today?”
“Yes! Roasted duck and [Luong], a red wine smuggled from the West Continent.”
“Oho? That's pricey. Nice score. Mira and Shera eat triple portions minimum—factor that in.”
“Understood, Boss. Food incoming!”
“Mmm~ Mira, Shera. Let's eat!”
““Yessir~!””
Even with demon-altered bodies, I ate normal food. Black smoke face or not, I had eyes, nose, mouth, ears. They just glowed red!
Savoring tender duck slices and the sweet red wine's smooth warmth, we ate happily with the kids. But amid it all, I pondered the bomb I'd dropped ten years back. Who knew Pladeus's legacy would spark a world war?
His forbidden tome lingered in my mind—chimera synthesis formulas, magic fusion rituals. I'd copied it into a book, stashed in my secret vault just in case. For fixing kids like Prina with leprosy or physical handicaps.
How to play this situation... Gotta call a family meeting later.
This world's medicine? Pray at temples for miracles. No real doctors. Folk remedies, herbalists for colds, alchemist potions—temples handled most.
First thing I did here: Hygiene education for the kids and businesses. Simple stuff: Wash daily. Hands before meals. Clean and organize. Regular bedding laundry and sun-drying. Brush after eating.
That alone stopped most minor ills and parasites. Worst case? Prina cleans everything with her slime body, melting bugs.
No dentists here—toothaches sucked. So twice daily brushing: morning and night. Made our crew the cleanest gang in town. Malcolm, who'd run inns before, said our places had fewer fleas and ticks.
Even clean as we were, outsiders brought pests—no hygiene sense. Couldn't screen guests either.
Can't eradicate 'em fully without teaching hygiene first, huh?
Post-meal, we hit the streets, checking more businesses. No more troublemakers—smooth inspections.
“Actor bro. Where to next?”
“Hmm~ School? Let's check on the new kids.”
““Sure~””
Businesses checked, off to the school I'd founded. More orphanage than school, really.
...
“2 × 2 = 4! 2 × 3 = 6! 2 × 4 = 8! 2 × 5 is...”
“How're the kids?”
“Good, Boss. Keeping up fine. Even the scared ones are playing, laughing, studying hard now.”
“Nice! Nothing beats seeing kids grow up right!”
“Yes. All thanks to you, Boss.”
Damn, laying it on thick~
Pirate Union slaves we'd nabbed included kids, some orphaned. This harsh world offered street kids no dreams, no hope. From my beggar days: Best case, grunt for Dekilaz. Normal life was tough enough without family—kids like that were on borrowed time.
I knew that pain best, so I took 'em in as best I could. Gave 'em education to choose their futures, a real fresh start.
Me, a brutal criminal? Fine. But innocent kids suffering? Couldn't stomach it. What sin did they commit in this godforsaken world that ignored prayers?
“Whoa? It's the Godfather!”
“Waaah~♪ Godfather! Hi~♪”
“Hey, class first, kids!”
“Pfft! Whatever. Seeing 'em this happy makes me happier. Hey kids, hi! Good?”
“““Yessir~♪”””
Spotting me mid-class, they swarmed happily. Godfather over Boss? Felt weird for kids. It meant guardian parent—fitting since I'd taken 'em in. Not some mafia movie shit!
“Godfathah! Godfathah!”
“Hm? What's up?”
Lisping toddlers grabbed my pants, calling cutely. Why so adorable?
Glancing at Mira and Shera, I recalled their cute phases. They blushed, twisting those huge muscled bodies girlishly, fidgeting fingers—remembering too.
“Weally good~”
Pfft! Too cute!
“We wanna be cool villains like Godfathah or sis when we gwow up~!”
“Yeah~ Yeah~ Great villains lat—wait, huh?”
...What'd I just hear? Future dream: villain? Criminal?
I stared at the teacher; he scratched awkwardly, handing over papers. Future aspiration surveys. Kids' goals for adulthood.
But the answers? Gangster, assassin, hitman, fixer, smuggler, pirate...
...
“Kids?! What the hell is this?! Gangster? Assassin? Pirate?!”
“““Wanna be great villains like Godfather!”””
“No way!”
“““Nooo! We will~!”””
...The kids are growing up crooked!!!~~~
Fresh sprouts already corrupted! In cartel lands like Central/South America, maybe realistic dreams in this brutal North Continent where normal living sucked.