Chapter 5: Streaming Dreams and Spicy Regrets
After cleaning up the mess I made of the apartment, I’m sitting here, sipping plain water to soothe my burning stomach, staring blankly at the TV.
Maybe it’s because I couldn’t eat due to the stomachache, or maybe it’s that insane Mapo Tofu, but my empty stomach keeps churning, leaving me in no state to do anything.
The occasional growling, demanding food, suggests I’ve recovered somewhat, but the shock from that Mapo Tofu lingers, making the thought of eating anything unappealing.
Well… it’ll probably settle soon, so I’ll hold off a bit longer.
If I put anything in my stomach now, it feels like something unbearable might happen.
“Ugh, my stomach’s killing me. Who makes foodthat spicy? They said it was spicy, but I never imagined it’d bethis bad.”
There’s that dialect again.
Now that I’m a bit calmer, I’ve noticed this dialect just won’t leave my mouth.
It’s like, if I spoke slowly, word by word, I might manage standard speech, but…
I’d rather stick to the dialect than sound awkward and stilted—that’d drive me nuts.
“…”
Suddenly, something feels off.
Just a few hours ago, I was in shock over turning into this body, yet here I am, somehow staying calm—how?
Was I always this quick to adapt?
No, absolutely not.
I know myself well, and I’mnot someone who adjusts quickly.
My stubbornness isn’t quite at the level of Heungseon Daewongun, building a monument to reject anything that doesn’t fit my standards, but by normal standards, people would definitely say, “You’re pretty headstrong, huh?”
That’s the kind of person I am.
Well, “adapt” might not be the right word here, but the point is: I’m not someone who readily accepts change.
“Man, waking up as a woman after being a man—or vice versa—how could anyone accept that quickly?”
Thinking it over, the premise itself is absurd.
Forget accepting it—first, I should’ve questioned if this is even realistic.
Let’s think.
You wake up, and your gender has changed.
Is that plausible?
“Hah.”
A hollow laugh escapes at the ridiculous premise.
No way it’s possible.
Even gender reassignment surgery takes years and requires regular hormone treatments, yet in a single night, I became a complete woman…
“Did it happen?”
Let me check.
“It happened.”
Good lord, it’s real.
I’m calling out to a god I usually only curse at, pressing my hand to my forehead.
My chest is noticeably curved, and down below—well, no need to say it.
The absence of my lifelong companion of over 20 years is proof enough, isn’t it?
I’d need a hospital to know for sure, but there’s no way they’d accept someone without ID.
A sigh escapes naturally in this hopeless situation—no, a sigh would be the least of it.
Like a tree felled by a typhoon, I collapse sideways.
My eyes start to water.
I expected a crushing sense of loss to hit me, but… nothing.
Just a calm, “Oh, I see.”
I roll onto my side, staring at the ceiling.
A ceiling unchanged from my memory.
I turn my head to scan the room.
Everything’s the same as I remember…
Creak—Thud
Notperfectly the same, but close enough, so I’ll let it slide.
The only things that have changed in this room are a few broken pieces of furniture and… me.
“Sigh, my head’s about to split.”
Blinking slowly, I let out a sigh and close my eyes.
What do I do from here?
Half-losing my mind and escaping reality doesn’t seem possible anymore—besides, if I keep spacing out, nothing will get done, so I’m done with that.
Since things have come to this, I should make a plan for the future, no matter how complicated or headache-inducing.
First, let’s set everything else aside and think about how to make money.
I’m not starvingyet, but considering expenses for clothes, food, and everything else coming up, it’s better to prepare now.
I don’t arrogantly assume my writing will sell forever, so this is a natural step.
Sure, I have some royalties coming in from published works, but they’re not blockbusters—just enough to barely get by.
Relying on that alone is risky.
…Honestly, it’s already a bit tight.
Enough rambling.
What matters now is finding a new way to earn money in case my writing stops selling.
Entrusting my body to someone else is a last resort—absolute worst-case scenario—so let’s rule that out.
Option one: turn my experience of “transgenderification”—what people call TS—into a book.
Not a memoir, but a light novel.
“…That’s ridiculous.”
Rejected.
It’s obviously a bad idea.
Sure, TS novels are great, I get it.
But they don’t suit me.
It’s not about accepting it—it’s that my writing style doesn’t mesh with light novels.
My stiff, boring prose combined with a light novel?
What happens?
[No! That’s—!]
It’d start like that and fill pages with exposition, tossing readability out the window.
Another issue: I’m bad at conversations, so my dialogue would either be painfully stiff or cringe-worthy lines ripped from somewhere else.
Who’d read something that dull?
Sure,some people might, but could I make a living off it?
I’d shake my head no.
“Hm.”
If writing’s out, what about drawing?
I vaguely recall starting to draw years ago, thinking illustrations would enhance my writing.
I didn’t study formally—just followed YouTube tutorials and winged it, but I remember liking the results.
Might as well try now.
So, how’d it go picking up a pen after so long?
“Don’t trust human memory, ugh…”
Sighing, I put the pen down.
It’s obvious, but the idea of making a living drawing was scrapped after 30 minutes.
I could barely sketch a face outline, let alone a person, and I thought I could earn money with art?
Talk about hubris.
Sure, diving headfirst into things was possible in my teens, fueled by passion and endless time.
But thinking I could use my half-baked, self-taught art skills now is like selling my conscience—or letting it evaporate like alcohol in the summer heat.
So, the conclusion: my art skills are rock-bottom, Mariana Trench-level bad.
“Sigh, if I could at least draw well, I could’ve built a following and streamed or something—wait.”
Streaming.
The word slipped out, and a spark went off in my head.
Could I make a living streaming?
I hate to admit it, but my new appearance is striking—100 out of 100 people would do a double-take.
And while my dialect might be hard for some to understand, my voice is something else.
With a bit of effort, it’s a sultry voice that could make people swoon.
If I were better with words, I could’ve charmed my way through conversations.
“…”
Thinking about it makes me feel pathetic, maybe because it’s embarrassing to say.
Sighing, I got up and headed to the bathroom.
…To pee.
“…Sigh.”
Washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and met the gaze of a short-haired girl with thick eyebrows.
Yup, that’s me.
Even with a bare face and messy hair, I didn’t look dirty or unkempt—just exuded a strange, decadent beauty.
That was my thought, seeing this girl.
‘What if, instead of this blank expression, I smiled, or looked sad—any expression at all?’
Since changing into this body, I haven’t closely examined my face.
It’s hard to accept, but I studied my reflection carefully.
My pale skin stood out even more in the dim evening light, my dark purple hair, thick but short eyebrows that suited the girl perfectly, and those mystical purple eyes with an almost magnetic pull.
Despite looking like a mid-teen at best, this face radiated an indescribable allure.
Of course, since it’smy face, it didn’t make me feel weird or anything—just a passing observation.
“Sigh—what am I even doing?”
Enough about my face.
Let’s try smiling.
I forced the corners of my mouth up.
My eyes naturally softened, half-closing.
How could a smile lookthis suggestive?
My slightly parted lips, red against my pale skin, looked even more provocative because of the contrast.
[“Heh heh—”]
No, this won’t do.
It’s too much… no, it’s the kind of breathtaking smile that evokes Daji or Yang Guifei.
If this weren’t my face, I’d have given my heart and soul just to see this smile once.
When the smile faded, even knowing it’smy face, I felt a twinge of regret.
Shaking my head as if to clear it, I splashed cold water on my face.
Get it together, come on.
“Phew, what a vixen, ugh, I’m done for.”
Wiping my face with a towel, I left the bathroom.
Let’s put streaming on hold for now.
Starting it thoughtlessly feels like it’d lead to something I can’t handle.
If someone donated millions just to see me smile, my stomach—unlike others—would probably give out from the stress…
Wait, what if I just don’t show my face?
“Oops!”
I slapped my forehead, a crisp sound ringing out.