The One-Eyed, One-Legged Journey

As far as the League of Champions community was concerned, most of what I saw was just personal attacks.

I told myself it shouldn't bother me — these were people who couldn't do a thing to me, just running their mouths. And yet I still found myself digging through things I had no real reason to look for.

The only reason was to catalog the pledges people ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had made for the scenario where I turned out not to be a cheater — the ones I might actually benefit from.

Finding them wasn't hard. Anyone in the community who cursed me out and then promised to do something if I wasn't a hacker got upvoted into the top of the page. All I had to do was save those.

Shaving their heads, cutting off their dicks — none of that was my concern. I only cared about the ones offering to buy me something, or give me something.

And conveniently, there was even someone who'd saved every single record just for the fun of it. Once something was archived, it stayed — even if the original poster deleted the thread.

Of course, they could always just not follow through. Most of them probably never intended to. If anyone called them out for breaking a pledge, they could simply delete their account and be done with it.

But if even one person kept their word, something would end up in my hands. I figured I could use that to roughly repay the favor I owed the woman downstairs.

And if nobody followed through…

…Well. I didn't know. Appearing on a stream should at least get me some kind of appearance fee, right? My presence alone would pull enough aggro to drive the viewership up.

Once I'd more or less collected the pledge posts, I checked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠CocoaTalk again.

It was essentially the first time I'd used the app since my father died and my mother went to prison. I'd reached out hoping Celesty — the one who'd first suggested I clear my name — might help, and he'd set up a way for me to communicate with someone else who could: Kancho.

Apparently both of them were internet streamers. I knew what that meant — people who broadcast themselves playing games and made money off donations, ads, and view counts. To someone like me who did nothing but play games all day, they were people I might run into in-game without realizing it, yet who lived in an entirely different world.

Unfortunately, clearing the hack accusations from my own house turned out to be impossible. Going outside on this leg of mine was already a burden, so I'd asked just in case — and been told it wouldn't prove anything anyway.

I'd expected as much. There was no way for people watching an explanation to know what was or wasn't installed on my computer.

Objectively speaking, the proper way to clear my name was to play League of Champions on a completely clean machine and deliver my usual performance. So Kancho had offered to provide the venue — the studio where he did his internet broadcasts.

Not his room, not his house, but a dedicated studio. That alone meant he was a streamer who made serious money. On top of that, he'd even secured a sponsorship deal for a brand-new computer by agreeing to advertise it. At that point, I could fairly say I no longer owed Celesty or Kancho anything.

The two of them would get viewership and a free computer thanks to me, and I'd scoop up whatever scraps fell from the pledges.

…It was a lopsided deal, if I was being honest. But that was just how the world worked. The bear does the tricks; the people take the money.

Reading between the lines of Kancho's messages, the implication was clear: if I was running a hack program, I wouldn't get so much as a scrap.

But that was nothing to worry about. I'd been playing this game on pure ability the entire time, hadn't I?

All I had to do was get to Kancho's Studio.

I'd said an hour, but by distance alone it was only a twenty- or thirty-minute bus ride. I'd padded it to an hour just in case the bus ran late.

The real problem was what to wear outside.

At home, I could skip underwear that didn't fit and get by in nothing but an oversized hoodie. Walking out the door like that, though, would be insane. Bottomless fashion might be a thing, but roaming around without panties or pants…

So I dug through the closet.

The top didn't matter. Oversized shirts were a fashion choice people made on purpose — I'd seen it. The problem was underwear and pants.

Every pair of underwear from when I'd been a man was too big for my hips now. The pants just slid right off. People said a woman's pelvis was wider than a man's, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠apparently that stopped mattering once you'd shrunk this small.

…There was exactly one combination that might work.

A triangle swimsuit and a pair of trunk-style shorts.

The swimsuit was something my mother had bought me after puberty, and I'd been too embarrassed to ever put it on. But swimsuit fabric at least wouldn't slip off mid-walk. And the shorts would probably stay up if I cinched the belt tight enough.

From top to bottom, every piece of clothing was absurdly large on me — a comical, baggy mess. But the swimsuit wouldn't be seen under anything, and shorts weren't exactly a size-critical garment.

As for a shower… well. I'd taken one last night under the next-door woman's nagging, so I could skip it today. A quick face wash would do.

I ran my fingers through my messy hair in a rough approximation of combing, grabbed my phone, and headed for the front door.

One last obstacle: putting on shoes and walking out.

If I wrote it in English, it probably wouldn't be Shoes — just Shoe. With no prosthetic, I only had one foot to put a shoe on.

Ever since my body had become like this, my father and mother had forbidden me from going outside, so of course they'd never bought me a prosthetic. Living alone, I'd felt the need for one, but a quick internet search showed that even used ones cost hundreds of thousands of won. Wheelchairs were expensive too, naturally.

For someone surviving on cup ramen that cost less than a thousand won a meal, those things were pure luxuries. The only place I ever went was the convenience store out front, and the inconvenience only lasted a moment. No reason to waste that kind of money.

Instead, I picked up a thick tree branch I'd scavenged a while back. Hopping around on one foot while bracing against the walls worked fine at home, but outside that wouldn't be an option. The branch would serve as a makeshift cane.

And so the journey of the one-eyed, one-legged girl began.