Chapter 10 : Ugly nine years old (1)

In this world, schools don’t really exist.
To be precise, they do, but they’re exclusively for nobles. For commoners, the only place to learn is at home.
And unless you have a decent, harmonious family like mine, even that’s barely an education.

In that sense, I’m living a pretty blessed life for an extra.
“Son, are you a genius or what?”
“I’m your son, Mom. Why even ask?”
“Ugh… My boy’s answers are perfect too! I knew you were sharp, but I didn’t realize you were this smart!”

Thanks to Mom, who’s educated despite being a commoner, I get to learn.
I breeze through basic math and the Imperial language I’ve heard and read since I was little, earning praise like this.

“Sorry, son! If I’d known you were this bright, I wouldn’t have settled for your dad—I’d have snagged a noble! I’m so sorry we can’t send you to school!”
“…I’m telling Dad.”
“Oh! Uh, how about we move to the next subject? History! Wow, fun, right?”

Hmm, I’m looking forward to dinner.
It might be my chance to see the one and only fight between these two, who’ve never argued since I was born.

So begins history class.
“Son, are you an idiot or what?”
“I’m your son, Mom. Why even ask?”
“Ugh… My boy’s answers are a total fail! I knew you were cheeky, but I didn’t realize you were this annoying!”

Sorry, but this world’s history wasn’t covered much in the novel.
I got every question wrong.
Well…
At least I’m not resisting and I’m soaking up new knowledge eagerly.
I’m trying, aren’t I?
Have a drink, Mom.
Your throat must be dry from your idiot son.
Have another.

“….”
And so, my weekends are consumed by studying.

Half the reason I study so hard is for my future travels.
The other half, if I had to say, is for the ashen witch.

Nobles go to school when the time comes, learning without needing family lessons.
Commoners, if they have a home and parents, get a modest education from their mothers.

But what about a girl who’s neither noble nor quite commoner, more like an outcast?
A girl with no home, no family, living on a plank in an alley?
Who’s teaching her?

She learns language from the cruel words kids hurl at her.
She learns math by counting the stones thrown at her.
She learns history through the scorn and rejection she faces for her ashen hair.
When I recall her slurred words, that’s what I think.

That’s why.
For my future, for hers, for the Empire’s safety, and for my parents’ well-being.
That’s why I’ve decided to take on the role of a mother, which she never had, until I become an adult.

One weekday.
“Get lost.”
“Yessir.”

I grab the freshly cooked food, old clothes, and the paper and pencil I requested from the uncle, then leave the shop.
…Only to poke my head back in.
“Hey, uncle.”
“What now?!”
“These clothes smell like a bachelor.”
“Get the hell out!”
“Oh, sorry.”

Grinning, I wink at him and bolt.
Of course, the clothes don’t smell like a bachelor.
The uncle, despite his gruff look, is a proper family man with a lovely wife and three kids.

Carrying the food and clothes, I head toward the square but pause and turn down an unfamiliar street.
The ashen girl moved.
Her old spot became too known, and kids bullied her during the day when I wasn’t there.
Plus, the encounter with the Hero that day was, honestly, pretty terrifying.

So, I talked to her, and we moved her plank and few belongings to a new spot at a quiet hour.
A slightly cleaner alley, less frequented by people and kids.

Entering the alley, I speak quietly.
“Hey.”
“…Ah.”

Her gaze, fixed blankly on the sky, shifts to me quickly at my words.
After nearly a year, I can read some emotion in her unchanging face.
Right now, it’s gladness.

I approach slowly, pulling out a damp towel I got from a shop on the way.
“You’re filthy.”
“….”

Muttering, I wipe her face and arms, the exposed parts.
Living in hiding like this, she has no place to wash.
I hope one day she can bathe properly, but for now, I can only bring a damp towel.

The good thing is, since moving, no kids have come, so no new wounds.
The old scars and wounds are healing too, thanks to the ointment and cream I’ve been applying.
Today, I apply the ointment again, and we sit, staring at each other.

“….”
“….”

She never speaks first unless I do.
We’re not exactly close.
We haven’t exchanged names.
We only see each other about once a month.
And the girl in front of me is a bomb that could explode with one wrong word or action.

So, can’t you start the conversation for once?
“Today…”
Oh.
“What… are we doing…?”

I didn’t expect her to speak first.
“….”
“….”

Surprised, I stare at her blankly.
Somehow, I’m the one struck dumb this time.

Teaching her to speak.
Her pronunciation’s still slurred, but she slowly follows my lead.
“Hel-lo…?”
“Thank you…”

Starting with basics.
“Em… pire…”

Moving to common knowledge, step by step, the ashen girl progresses.
She’s clumsy but follows without complaint.
From simple greetings and thanks to trickier things like place names, she tries to say them.

“Capital, Fr… ayon…”
“Not Frayon, Frellion.”
“Frell-ion…?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah…”

Bit by bit, I expand her world.
Her well, once confined to this alley, begins to widen, even just a little.

As I talk with her—not quite a conversation—I wonder.
The things she’d never have learned, the warmth she’d never have felt.
Can these things I’m giving her change the witch?
With the starting point slightly altered, could she escape the novel’s storm?

Break free from the novel.
Not as a character, but as a person.
It’s absurd, but as someone not bound to a role, I cling to this fragile, straw-like hope.

You.
Staring at me blankly, what do you think of my worries?

As always, the day ends, and it’s time to part.
After teaching her for a while, I stand, brushing off my numb legs from sitting on the ground.
“….”
“….”

It’s a familiar routine now.
When I stand, she realizes it’s time for me to go and twitches her hands.
She reaches toward me, as if not wanting me to leave, then stops and lowers them, repeating the motion.
I watch silently, then say I’ll come back next time—a set ritual between us.

But today’s different.
“A… in.”
“…Yeah.”

Instead of waiting for a farewell, she says my name.
“Ain…”
“Right.”

When I asked if she wanted to know something else, she pointed at me, so I told her my name, which she now says in her slurred way.
But I don’t know her name.
The novel called her Belia, but abandoned at birth, she has no name now.
I don’t know the long gap before she becomes Belia, so I have no name to call her.

I don’t want to call her Belia, a name tied to her curse.
Maybe it’s childish, not wanting to call her a witch, or maybe it’s defiance against the novel’s rules.
For those vague reasons, I just call her the ashen girl in my mind.

“Ain.”
“….”

As she murmurs my name repeatedly, she says the farewell I was supposed to say.
“Come… again…”
Her pronunciation, slightly improved, carries the words.

So.
“Yeah, I’ll come back next time.”

I can’t help but return her farewell.