The Madwoman
The madwoman
In her previous life, the game she had once known had been a massive hit, the very dawn of e-sports.
Street Fighter.
Even in her past memories, it stood out the sharpest of all.
On screen, two figures faced each other squarely. One fist extended, the other one small step back, distance calculated to the last.
A flicker. One frame. Both minds racing ahead, reading moves, jamming the joystick with everything they had.
She remembered dueling someone whose name she never learned.
Sometimes a small child, sometimes a school uniform kid, sometimes a tired office worker after hours.
They never knew each other’s names. Where they came from. What they did for a living. What kind of lives they lived.
But they were all the same.
Win and you laughed. Lose and you sighed. Then you dropped in another coin.
Everyone had that moment when their fists clenched, hadn’t they?
In front of bad friends. In front of adults who forced unfairness. In front of bosses who talked down to you.
You swallowed the anger, bowed your head, and pretended it was fine.
That was when the other version of her on the screen took over—the one who could do what real her never could.
She stepped forward, punched, kept getting up even after being hit.
The arcade smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The joystick felt gritty under her palm, the buttons hard to press.
Even after falling into this world, those memories were painfully vivid.
There was someone else in front of her. Someone who lit a flame between two people.
She sat across from her, gripping the same joystick, playing by the same rules, determined to beat her.
A light hit felt unjust. A grab felt humiliating.
The timing felt right for a win. But a combo and everything shattered.
“Again.”
She said it even when no one told her to.
Like the sister playing right now.
“This time I’m actually going to win.”
“I would’ve won if not for that technique.”
There were always excuses. But the heart of the game stayed the same.
Skill showed. Pride was at stake. Defeat left its mark on your face.
K.O.
“Again… I lost again… How is this possible?”
The spectators felt the same way.
“That sister is really bad.”
“I can’t do it. It’s just Abella who’s too good at the game.”
They weren’t wrong. Abella had incredible game talent.
After a few tries she was already hitting combos she had never been taught. Fluid as water.
“Ahahaha…”
Playing alone was boring to watch, but fighting games were different.
You could see who would win. Who was losing ground.
The fun of giving advice was incredible.
“Hey, why are you jumping there?”
“Shut up.”
“I could’ve won if you’d just blocked. You’re a grab character.”
“Shut up.”
“…Did you really get hit? You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”
“Are you trying to die?”
The sister’s eyes were already filling with tears, ready to cry at any second.
How overdid it.
“Ah… Miss Rose, why don’t you rest a bit—”
Iria touched Abella’s shoulder.
“Abella? That kind of mercy is insulting in this game.”
“R-really? I’m sorry…”
“It’s fine. Not everyone can be as considerate as Lord Reven.”
What kind of person did Iria think she was…?
“…Keep playing.”
Rose bit her lip and gripped the joystick tighter.
She didn’t like this game much.
The more she played, the more her childhood memories resurfaced.
***
Rose had never been Rose from the moment she was born.
She had no name. Or rather, the madwoman was closer to the truth.
Names were a luxury for kids drifting the streets.
Some were called by their hair color. Others by scars. Some weren’t even called by name.
Greenhead.
One-eyed.
Rat.
And the madwoman.
The reason she had earned that name was simple. She was half-mad.
Small. Thin. Arms like twigs, cheeks hollow from not eating enough. Her eyes looked bigger than her arms, the way kids who didn’t get enough food usually did.
Pain when hit. Collapse when pushed. Breath caught when kicked.
That was all she knew.
People called her the madwoman. The reason was simple.
Reach out a hand and it was grabbed. Grab her hair and she clawed. Kicked and she bit the ankle.
Stone hit and she threw a stone back.
Compromise was for those who had something. Mercy was for the rich.
Not something the madwoman would do.
Violence was common in the slums.
They beat people to steal food. To take a sleeping spot. To feel superior to someone weaker.
Like how rain made clothes wet, winter froze hands, or hunger made you want to take what others had.
It was only natural.
That day was no different.
A hard, cold piece of bread in her pocket.
She had scavenged it from the trash behind the bakery. Outer crust burned, inner soft, dirt speckled inside.
If it fit in her mouth, it counted as food. If she could swallow, it was enough.
If she kept it down, she survived that day.
She was about to shove the bread in when she sensed movement from the opposite end. She ran without hesitation down the narrow alley.
“Catch!”
A voice came from behind.
Three footsteps. No, four.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. Just ran.
Fall and you’re stepped on. Stumble and you’re taken. Stumble and you starve.
Starve and you can’t find food. Can’t find food and you die.
Nothing was more painful than the endless hunger of death. She had seen the skin-and-bone people eating scraps.
She was still human. For now.
“Hah… hah…”
The end of the alley was blocked. No escape.
Inside the rags she barely called clothes. Between her thin ribs and arms.
If someone reached in to steal, she would at least bend her body and push the bread inside.
“Hey, eating alone?”
She didn’t answer.
“Let’s share, right?”
Lie. Sharing food in this place usually meant taking it.
Three in front.
One was big.
Shoulders wider than peers. Arms longer. Hands thicker from eating well.
The type who pushed with strength. Grab and it was over.
The moment they grabbed, the opponent’s struggle was pinned down. Against wall or floor—choice was theirs.
Arrogant face. Like the small, thin girl in front was easy to crush.
One hid behind the big one.
The type who thought being next to stronger made them strong too.
No courage to charge. No guts to hit alone. The weakest one laughing loudly.
One held a handful of stones.
Fingers tensed. Ready to throw.
The type who used weapons. Most annoying opponent.
The last one just watched. He didn’t move.
Instead, his eyes moved.
Who would fall first. Where the bread was hidden. When he should jump in to get the most without getting hurt.
Those eyes. He hated them more than the first one to run.
She had been lucky. Three was manageable.
She didn’t need to read the person’s heart for long.
Good or bad. What they wanted. What they hid.
The moment their gaze touched her, she could guess.
Thanks to those eyes, she had survived as a girl’s body without clinging to anyone.
She read the next move like she read the future.
Eyes moved first. Shoulders tensed first. Toes pointed first.
She ran before they did.
Whoosh!
Fist flew toward her running path. Weak punch, but enough to hurt a small kid.
She lowered her body and dodged. Turned completely to dodge the next one coming in a row.
And then she brought her foot down.
On the opponent’s instep. Precisely on the little toe.
Hard with her bare heel.
Crunch.
Bone broke.
“Aaaah!”
She didn’t miss the opening.
Hand pulled back. Shoulder lifted. Eyes lowered to check the wound.
Same with the other foot.
“Aaaah…!”
“Eh…?”
She dropped to her knees on her own. The hidden one behind her appeared.
“What are you doing! Grab!”
Her hand shot out reflexively. Grab and it was over.
Instead she dove forward. One long arm meant a blind spot.
She headbutted his solar plexus.
“Guh!”
He was already slumped, unable to breathe properly. She stepped on his wrist.
“Ah, it hurts!!”
At the same time a stone flew. She knew she couldn’t dodge it.
She whipped her head as fast as possible.
The stone grazed her forehead instead of her cheekbone. Hot blood trickled down her face.
‘…As long as it’s not my eyes.’
She stomped the head of the one she had just headbutted and leaped up.
She turned quickly and kicked.
“Aaaah!”
She grabbed dirt from the ground and threw it in his face.
“This crazy girl!!”
In the dust his eyes clouded. His hands groped the air and grabbed her hair.
Even through the pain of tearing her scalp she didn’t scream. She bit his shoulder to bite back the scream.
“Gwaaah!”
Crunch!
Flesh was chewed. Fresh blood and iron taste filled her mouth.
Like she was a beast eating humans.
She clawed his face with her nails. The scalp pain only grew worse. Fist flew toward her face.
Thud! Thud!
“Stop! Stop!!”
Crunch!
She didn’t stop. Chewing and tearing flesh away.
Finally the grip on her hair loosened. He passed out with foam in his mouth.
“Ah…”
She spat out the piece of flesh in her mouth. Then she grabbed a stone from the ground.
She clenched her fist.
“…Are you going to keep going?”
“Ah, ah…”
The one who hadn’t dared to join until the end sat down right there. He even wet himself.
Lips split. Knees scraped. A clump of hair torn out.
That was how street fights went.
***
She sat at the corner of the alley.
The bread in her pocket was half-crushed. Blood soaked it, dirtier than before from rolling in dirty rags.
Every time she chewed, the split lip tore again. The blood taste and burned smell rose with every swallow.
“…Tastes bad.”
It shouldn’t have tasted of anything. But did taste matter for survival?
The girl who fought three boys for a single loaf of bread, kept taking hits, and tore off their shoulder flesh.
The madwoman.
She didn’t hate the name. At least it meant someone remembered her.
But life didn’t get better. It was just a small comfort.
Hungry days stayed hungry. Cold nights stayed cold.
Rain made her crawl under anything. Snow made her dig into the rotten haypile behind the market where animals slept.
She often couldn’t even do that.
Days she got caught stealing bread and beaten. Nights she stayed awake to keep from losing her sleeping spot. They were usually adults.
Kids tried to steal food. Adults tried to steal kids’ lives. To steal their future.
That was why she hated the hands of adults.
The hand offering food as bait. The hand offering kindness with a smile. The hand that abandoned a child without even giving a name.
One day another hand came down.
Clean. White. Unscarred.
Ribail Dicles, head of the Dicles family.
“You have mana. If you want to survive, grab this hand.”
Crunch!
The madwoman bit the hand before she even thought.
“…Your way of grabbing is rather peculiar.”
After that day her name stopped being the madwoman.
Rose Dicles.