Ugly Nine-Year-Old
This world had no such thing as a proper school. To be precise, schools did exist, but they belonged exclusively to the nobles, leaving commoners like us with nowhere to learn except at home. And even that was a luxury—if your family wasn't scraping by like ours, or if it wasn't as harmonious, it was as good as having no education at all.
In that sense, I was living a pretty blessed life as an extra.
"My son, are you perhaps a genius?"
"I'm your son, Mom. Why even ask?"
"Ugh... As expected, even my son's answers are perfect scores. I knew he was smart, but I had no idea he was this brilliant!"
Thanks to my mother's knowledge—honed not from idleness but from a commoner's hard life—I could learn. Simple math and the imperial tongue, which I'd heard and read since childhood, were a breeze, earning me praise like this.
"Mom's sorry! If I'd known my son was this smart, I wouldn't have married your dad—I'd have snagged some noble somehow! I'm sorry I can't send you to school!"
"...I'm telling Dad."
"Eek! W-well, shall we move on to the next subject...? H-history! Sounds fun, right?"
Hmm, dinner time can't come soon enough. A rare chance to witness a duel between my parents, who hadn't fought once since I was born.
And so history lesson began.
"My son, are you perhaps an idiot?"
"I'm your son, Mom. Why even ask?"
"Ugh... As expected, even my son's answers are total zeros. I knew he was annoying, but I had no idea he was this obnoxious!"
Sorry, but the novel barely covered this world's history. I bombed every question.
Well... she doesn't refuse, and she's diligently absorbing new knowledge. She's putting in the effort. Have a drink, Mom. Your throat must be dry from having such a dumb son. Another round.
"... "
And so my weekends passed, filled with study.
If I had to name a reason for studying every weekend, half of it was preparation for my future travels. The other half? For the sake of the gray witch.
Nobles get schooled when the time comes, no need for home lessons. Commoner kids with homes and parents learn what they can from their mothers. But what about her?
A girl who wasn't quite noble or commoner—more like one of those nonexistent "serfs." No home, no family, just scraping by on alleyway planks.
Who teaches her?
She learns language from the cruel taunts of other children. Math from counting the stones they hurl at her. History from the contempt heaped on her very existence, solely because of her gray hair.
Whenever I recalled her halting words, that's what I thought.
That's why. For my future self. For her future. For the empire's wholeness and my parents' safety.
For those reasons, I'd decided to take on the mother's role—at least until I became an adult.
One weekday.
"Get out."
"Yep."
I grabbed the freshly stir-fried food, old clothes, paper, and pencil from the uncle, then left the grocery store. ...No, I poked my head back in.
"But Uncle."
"What now?!"
"This shirt reeks of bachelor."
"Out, you little shit."
"Sorry!"
I flashed a grin, winked at the uncle, and bolted. Of course, it didn't smell like bachelor sweat. The uncle had a stunning wife who didn't suit his gruff looks and three kids—he was a proper family man.
Carrying the food and clothes he'd given me, I headed toward the square but paused, turning toward a slightly shadier alley instead. The gray girl had moved.
Too many kids knew her old spot now; without me there during the day, the bullying was nonstop. And honestly, bumping into that Hero guy had spooked me—a lot.
So I'd told her, and together we'd hauled her planks and meager belongings to a quieter time, switching spots.
A cleaner alley than before. One with less foot traffic, unlikely to draw kids.
Stepping into it, I said quietly,
"Hi."
"...Ah."
Her gaze, blankly fixed on the sky, snapped to me. After nearly a year, her unchanged face still stirred emotions in me. And this expression? Gladness.
I approached slowly, pulling out a damp towel I'd bought on the way.
"You're filthy."
"... "
Muttering that, I wiped her exposed face, arms, and such. Hiding like this meant no proper place to wash. One day I'd get her a real bath, but for now, damp towels were it.
At least the new spot kept kids away—no fresh wounds. Old scars and injuries were healing decently too. The ointments and regen creams I'd given her were finally paying off.
After applying more ointment today, the witch and I just stared at each other.
"... "
"... "
She never speaks first unless I do. I always have to start, but honestly, it felt awkward and tough for me too. We weren't close. No proper introductions. We met maybe once a month. And the girl before me was a bomb that could explode from one wrong word or move.
Can't you start once in a while?
"Today..."
Eh?
"What... are you... gonna do...?"
I hadn't expected her to speak first.
"... "
"... "
Stunned, I just gawked. Somehow, I'd become the mute one this time.
I teach her words. Still halting pronunciation, but bit by bit, she echoes what I say.
"Hel-lo...?"
"Thank... you... "
Starting with basics, slowly.
"Em... pire... of Ephrin... "
Up to common knowledge, step by step—the gray girl progresses.
Clumsily, but without complaint, she follows instructions. Simple greetings, thanks, even trickier place names.
"Capi-tal Pre-li-on... "
"Not Preli-on, Prelion."
"Pre-lion...?"
"Yeah."
"Ah... "
Like this, I widen her world, inch by inch. Her well—never even leaving the alley—starts to expand, if only a little.
As I chat-not-chat with the gray girl, I wonder: Can my lessons and warmth change the witch? A slight shift from her origin point—could it spare her the novel's storm?
Escape the novel. Become a person, not a character.
Impossible, probably. But as a non-character myself, I clung to this straw-thin hope.
You there, staring blankly at me—what do you think of my worries?
As always, the day ends. Time to say goodbye.
After teaching her awhile, sitting on bare ground, I shake out my numb legs and stand.
"... "
"... "
Now familiar. As I rise, she realizes I'm leaving—her hand twitches, reaching toward me as if to say don't go, then hesitates and drops.
I watch silently, then promise to return soon. That's our routine.
But today was different.
"A... in."
"...Yeah."
Instead of waiting for my goodbye, she called my name.
"Ain... "
"Yeah."
She'd pointed at herself when I asked if she wanted to learn more, so I'd told her—and now she mumbled it, haltingly.
But I don't know hers. The novel named her Bellia, but abandoned at birth, she had no name now. No bridge from blank to Bellia yet.
Nor did I want to call her that curse-symbol. Childish stubbornness? Rebellion against the novel's setup? Whatever—I just thought of her as the gray girl.
"Ain."
"... "
Looking down as she murmurs it over and over, she even says the goodbye I should have.
"See you... next time... "
With slightly better pronunciation.
So.
"Yeah, see you next time."
I had to return it.