Chapter 1: Hey, Give Me Back My Speech Bubble!!!

Sirin had injured her brain upon falling into this other world.

Due to the brain damage, the vocabulary Sirin could use was extremely limited, reduced to fewer than ten words, including one for an impossible reproductive act, one for a genetic transmission medium, and one for an animal’s offspring.

As a result, Sirin’s sentences were a mess, something like this:

“Fck… fckin’… bstard dog?”

Fortunately for Sirin, after a few months of scraping by in this world, someone began to understand her speech.

It was a miracle achieved by Sirin, who had learned the ways of a beggar, and a priest from a church with a decent heart.

In a corner of the village, unlike the temple that worshipped all gods, Peter, a priest of the poor church that served only the “Savior,” spoke.

“So, it’s a festival day, and you’re saying you’ll camp out in front of the temple all day? Can’t even speak properly, but you sure remember that.”

Sirin grinned.

“Bstard.”

“But I don’t think it’s a great idea. If you linger there from morning, you’ll get chased off for being bad luck. Evening would be better. No meat, but that’s how it is.”

Sirin’s face fell.

“Motherfcker…”

“Don’t act so wronged. That’s just the beggar’s life.”

Peter said indifferently.

“And like I’ve said before, if you’re going to keep spouting nonsense, wouldn’t it be better to pretend to be mute? Might help with begging.”

“Btch.”

“This isn’t good, that’s not good… yet you’re still hungry. Like I said, if you just kept your mouth shut, you’d have options, no?”

Peter’s gaze lingered on Sirin’s face for a moment.

“Wilson’s second floor is a bit cramped, but you wouldn’t go hungry there. It’s a tavern, so you could get some beer too. Sure, the girl there got beat up recently, but that’s not common.”

Sirin shot Peter a glare, but he continued nonchalantly.

“Young women in your situation often get by on men’s kindness. Can’t really call it a bad thing. Everyone’s just struggling to survive.”

“Fck you.”

“…Sometimes I wonder if you’re doing this on purpose. You can actually speak properly, can’t you?”

Sirin shrugged.

Though Peter miraculously understood her words, there were limits.

With her damaged language ability, Sirin couldn’t convey that she was a heterosexual man who would rather die than spread her legs for medieval savages.

Peter sighed.

“Well, looking like that, you’d be hard-pressed to get any kindness anyway. Why do you go around in such a state?”

Sirin sometimes rolled in mud puddles like a stray dog.

This led Peter to suspect she was truly mad, but it was part of her effort.

A struggle to become an acquired ugly.

After falling into this world, Sirin realized her attractiveness score of 180 was more of a poison.

To kill that charm, she rolled in mud whenever possible and smeared soot from the village’s communal oven on her face.

It was no exaggeration to call it a desperate effort to become Black.

And Sirin achieved a miracle. She changed her race through effort.

Now, everyone looked at her like leftover dog bones, a fairly successful strategy for a modern person accustomed to comfort surviving in a medieval fantasy land.

“Where you going?”

Finding no amusement with Peter, Sirin shrugged and stood up.

The festival food wouldn’t be available until evening anyway.

Her steps led to a small bakery on one side of the village square.

Eight out of ten times, trouble would arise today.

For the past few days, she’d been staving off hunger with unknown berries, small fish, or poisonous mushrooms outside the village.

Since she was in the village, she wanted to eat something proper.

As Sirin loitered in front of the bakery, Marta emerged from the back.

She spotted Sirin and gave a faint smile.

Marta, the bakery owner, was a kind-hearted widow.

She pitied Sirin, who couldn’t speak properly and was always filthy, often giving her stale bread or pastry scraps.

The kindness was appreciated but also put Sirin in a bind.

Silently, Sirin approached and pulled out a crumpled cloth pouch from her clothes.

Inside were a few handfuls of herbs and medicinal mushrooms gathered from the forest outside the village.

They looked rough but were effective, as Sirin had tested them for poison with her own body.

When Peter found out, he was horrified and tried to stop her, but Sirin, aside from suffering, was surprisingly fine.

Since then, he looked at her oddly.

Marta peeked into the pouch, slightly surprised, then smiled softly.

“You brought this for me. Thank you, but you don’t have to…”

Sirin cut her off by pressing the pouch into Marta’s hand and shaking her head.

It meant “It’s fine” or “Take it,” but no proper words came out, just a growl-like sound.

Sirin disliked giving or receiving things one-sidedly.

This was her minimal way of paying back.

Marta looked into Sirin’s stubborn eyes for a moment, then accepted the pouch with a mix of emotions on her face.

Pity, guilt for not needing it, and slight gratitude for Sirin’s strange way of expressing herself.

“Alright… I’ll use it well. I’ve been feeling a cold coming on, so I’ll brew some tea.”

In return, Marta handed over a bundle.

“Take this. It’s all I have today.”

Inside were three or four small, hard, but intact loaves of bread.

Sirin took the bundle and bowed deeply.

She didn’t open her mouth.

If she said “Thank you,” it’d probably come out as “Bstard.”

Marta smiled, as if used to it.

“Hey, the beggar girl’s here!”

“…”

As expected, trouble arrived. Some village kids spotted Sirin and swarmed over.

Keeping a safe distance, they hurled malice instead of stones.

“Ugh, that dirty crazy girl’s back!”

“Hey, make those shtty noises again! Bark like a btch!”

“Touch her, and you’ll catch a disease!”

Sirin’s brow twitched.

Her temper urged her to charge and rip their yapping mouths apart.

Repaying what she received multiplied was her way.

Sirin slowly raised her head toward the kids, ready to curse the little demons.

“Bstard…”

Before she could speak, the bakery door flung open, and Marta’s daughter, Vera, burst out.

Vera shouted at the kids.

The kids hesitated at the sight of Vera but soon jeered back.

“Vera, your mom’s giving bread to that crazy girl again!”

“You gonna end up like her? Smelly and mute!”

“Wanna get beat up again?!”

The kids screeched like pterodactyls and fled. Vera, face red, turned to Marta.

“Mom! I told you I’m embarrassed to death because of her!”

“Vera! I told you not to say mean things…”

Marta tried to scold her, but Vera, fuming, stormed back into the shop.

Sirin stared at the door where Vera disappeared.

Irritation and anger bubbled inside, but she also understood.

Yeah, it makes sense.

I’d feel the same.

So she had to endure.

She didn’t want to make a scene in front of Marta.

“Don’t mind them. Kids are just immature…”

Marta said apologetically.

Sirin, instead of replying, bowed a bit deeper.

Clutching the bread bundle tightly, she turned away, ignoring the pity, scorn, and the kids’ giggles behind her.

The bread felt hard, but she could faintly sense Marta’s warmth.

That small warmth gave her steps a little strength.

Sirin headed to the village outskirts, to a quiet stream.

“…”

Since falling into this world, Sirin spent most of her time by the stream.

Seasons came to the stream faithfully.

Fallen leaves rolled in the chilly breeze, warm snow fell, and soon everything froze white.

When the ice melted, rain turned the ground to mud, and finally, green sprouts emerged.

Even Sirin, uninterested in stars, could feel the night sky change when lying down.

In that changing scenery, the only constant was Sirin, crouched by the stream.

Perhaps she’d grown numb.

To the passing time, the changing seasons, even her own miserable state.

She existed as naturally as breathing, like the flowing stream.

An empty time, neither happy nor unhappy.

Sirin stared blankly at her distorted reflection in the water.

Is that really me?

A stranger’s face, covered in mud and soot.

A twisted thing, unable to express her heart.

‘Bread.’

Sirin thought of the simplest word.

Something to ease hunger, warm and soft.

She moved her lips deliberately, trying to say “bread” naturally.

“Your mom.”

A curse slipped out, as expected.

It felt like someone else’s tongue was stuck in her throat.

Sirin closed her eyes.

Calming her rising anger, she organized her thoughts delicately.

‘One by one. Slowly. Don’t rush.’

Her eyes, reopened, gleamed.

Sirin hadn’t spent months by this stream aimlessly.

Her knowledge was limited, but her intelligence wasn’t.

She clearly understood her problem.

The wiring between her mind’s blueprint and her mouth’s output was completely broken.

The meaning she wanted to convey and the words that came out were utterly tangled.

So, wanting to say “thank you” produced “bstard.”

Simply memorizing or repeating words was useless.

The moment she thought of “bread,” her brain was already set to say “bstard.”

There was only one solution.

Abandon meaning and chase sound.

Watching the stream, Sirin carefully observed her mouth’s shape.

Like mimicking a foreign song’s melody without knowing the meaning, she focused obsessively on the mouth shape, tongue position, and breath strength to produce the target sound.

‘Sang.’

For that sound… right, think “sht” in your head and open your mouth dumbly for “ah”?

No, that was closer to “san.” Then for “sang”… think of fcking “fck,” curl the tongue back, and make a nasal sound?

Observing her mouth’s reflection in the water, Sirin reverse-engineered her broken brain’s wiring.

Through hundreds, thousands of trial-and-error attempts, she built her own bizarre pronunciation formula.

For “chan,” think “foot” and place the tongue behind the front teeth.

For “chan,” think “jerk” and touch the palate… damn it, it’s like unscrewing a tightly fastened nail.

No, that would be easier. It was like a baby learning to walk.

But Sirin didn’t give up.

“San…”

When the first syllable came out somewhat right, the leaves blazed red, fell, and cold winds began to blow.

After spitting out countless twisted curse fragments, by late autumn, Sirin finally caught the first sound.

“Chang…”

The second syllable was formed in front of the frozen stream, breaking ice with numb hands.

The harsh cold stiffened her tongue, and her breath seemed to freeze.

After wrestling all winter, as the ground thawed, Sirin completed the second sound’s shape.

“Tan…”

And when spring arrived, Sirin managed the third syllable.

Her lips, reflected in the water, trembled slightly.

Almost there, damn it, just a bit more. The last one.

Fire blazed in Sirin’s eyes.

She squeezed out her last strength.

Forcing her broken brain circuits to twist, controlling warped muscles.

In a sensation like birthing pain in her brain, Sirin finally completed the target sound combination.

Sirin spoke.

“Status Window.”

Like a locked bolt finally turning, the words rang clearly in the air.

It was a moment when Sirin’s intent and lips aligned, as if compensating for the long time of insults and scorn.

Ding!

The light vanished.

With a clear electronic sound, the damned window that always occupied a corner of Sirin’s vision finally disappeared.

[Shout “Status Window” to proceed with the tutorial.]

The infuriating message was gone, and a new one glowed in its place.

[Tutorial proceeding.]

[All stats resetting.]

[! Coward’s Haven Mode for Super Cowards !]

As if a fog lifted from her brain, her thoughts cleared.

Three seasons had passed since falling into this world. And finally, Sirin could align her intent with her expression.

“Coward.”

Sirin smirked and said.

Coward.

It was the first proper word she spoke in this world.