Dong Bongsu decided to first learn the language of this place.
However, just thinking it in his head and getting used to it by listening would take at least a year.
That was more than enough time for him to die in his current weak state.
He could be beaten to death by Machil, die from an infection, or meet his end through some completely unforeseen variable.
Countless possibilities existed.
He had to learn much faster.
One month.
At the latest, within two or three months, while reaching a native level might be asking too much, he had to become proficient enough to listen, write, and speak without issue.
Only then could he significantly increase his chances of survival.
But how could he, without books or a teacher?
Ssk.
He moved and raised his somewhat recovered body.
Isn't it simple?
If you don't have it, you make it.
If there are no books, write them.
If there is no teacher, become one yourself.
'First, I'll create a language manual.'
A manual was, of course, a book.
To make a book, he first needed paper.
There was no way something like paper would be in this stable.
He had looked around for a while and found a suitable substitute.
By finding it, he secured not only a replacement for paper but also a substitute for ink.
Squeak, squeak.
The ones that disturbed his sleep every night.
They were rats.
He had been targeting them since before his body had fully healed.
He immediately put his plan into action.
The rats here were nimble, too.
But Dong Bongsu's reflexes, having recovered to some extent, were nimbler.
Above all, the triumph of civilization, a mousetrap made from rotten branches, straw, and stones, was even sharper.
For several days, he caught rats.
Dong Bongsu skinned the caught rats, removed their innards, dried the meat in the sun, and ate it.
He dried the hides more thoroughly and used them like paper.
He squeezed out every last drop of the rats' blood, collected it in a pouch made of rat skin, and stored it in his Inventory.
In the meantime, he also made something resembling a brush from horsehair.
It was stiff and not ideal for writing, but it was enough.
At this point, shouldn't he be grateful for even this much?
In this whole process, he learned one new fact.
Despite killing dozens of rats, there was no change in his Experience Bar.
Rats were creatures with zero experience points.
Even so, he did not conclude that all animals would give no experience.
It could be that the rats were just too weak.
He decided to reserve judgment on the 'no experience from animals' hypothesis for now.
Now, paper, ink, and a brush were all prepared.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He carefully remembered the things Machil mumbled and the conversations of people who visited the stable.
When they were gone, he would take out the rat skin, the horsehair brush, and the rat blood, and write down the pronunciations he heard and their presumed meanings in Hangul.
About a month later, a classical Chinese grammar manual, filled with tiny letters written on dozens of rat skins, was complete.
Perhaps if someone from the modern era saw this book, they might have thought it was quite plausible.
The book was that neat, with a clean script and good organization.
Who was it that said handwriting is the window to the soul? This was clearly false.
Look at Dong Bongsu's handwriting.
It was perfect.
His script was more upright than anyone else's in the world.
If one could judge a person by their handwriting, Dong Bongsu was a complete being.
No, perhaps handwriting was indeed a reflection of the soul.
After all, his mind would never waver, no matter what.
From the time the manual was completed, Dong Bongsu began to show Machil that his body had fully healed.
This was because, while making the manual, he had become able to understand most of what was said.
However, he still pretended to be a mute.
His pronunciation was still clumsy, and his ability to combine words was significantly inferior to that of the locals.
This act of his might continue even after he could speak perfectly.
If it was more suitable for hiding his true nature, he would do so as long as needed.
"Shit, this half-wit bastard. He's finally become a complete mute."
When Dong Bongsu still couldn't speak even after his body had fully healed, Machil started calling him Ma-ah-sam.
Ma-byeon-sam had been a derogatory name, but Ma-ah-sam was even more so.
Ma-ah-sam.
Dong Bongsu's new name, given because he was a mute.
He now had four names.
Dong Bongsu, So-sam, Ma-byeon-sam, Ma-ah-sam.
Except for Dong Bongsu, the other three were 'aliases' that everyone in the Danri Family called him as they pleased.
No one knew he was Dong Bongsu.
Behind the mask, the aliases, and the perfect act of being a mute, no one yet knew his real face and his real name.
By the time the seasons changed and a slightly chilly wind began to blow, Dong Bongsu could finally leave the stable and wander around the Danri Family grounds as he wished.
Of course, many restrictions still existed.
There were the family warriors who picked fights with him at every opportunity, and the other hired hands and servants who looked down on him simply because he was a Stablehand.
Even when he walked through the capital city of Soaring Sun to walk the horses in the morning and evening, people did not leave him alone.
"That moron bastard, I hear he can't even talk now."
"So he's a shit-head mute? A shit-moron mute."
"We should call him the shit-moron mute from now on! Hahaha."
He received all sorts of insults but paid them no mind.
In fact, the more it happened, the more he acted like a fool.
When cursed at, he would grin foolishly; when hit by a stone, he would cry out in pain; when ignored, he would lower his head as if it were natural.
Shit-head, mute, moron.
The more nicknames like shit-moron, mute, and Ma-ah-sam were added, the more it paradoxically proved the perfection of his act.
All this slander, verbal abuse, and violence would serve as a shield to hide his identity for a while.
And.
No one here, in the Danri Family, and further, in Soaring Sun, would know.
That all those things that had become a shield for Dong Bongsu would one day turn into swords and return to them.
Dong Bongsu learned the language through insults, grasped the geography of Soaring Sun while being beaten, and learned the culture of this place while lying flat on the ground.
In this way, he gradually and naturally blended into the darkness.
He was a shadow.
A long and large shadow, but so gloomy that no one recognized it.
No one noticed his excellent ordinariness.
The shadow was thus growing darker in the shade, unnoticed by anyone.
One day, several more months after he had bowed his head, he finally began his hunt.
These days, Machil was finding life enjoyable.
Should he call it a blessing in disguise?
He thought that the phrase the esteemed elders often used was meant for times like these.
When Ma-ah-sam was first injured, he had been angry and dissatisfied.
Who would be happy taking over someone else's work, especially the work of a man far beneath him?
But as they say, pleasure comes after hardship.
He was now being rewarded for all the trouble he went through taking care of Ma-ah-sam.
Although he had lost his ability to speak, the revived Ma-ah-sam listened to his words very well.
Without even being told, he took care of the Armory Hand's duties in advance.
Perhaps because he had become a mute, he no longer talked back, and he worked very diligently.
The resentful look in his eyes was also gone.
Now, when he looked into Ma-ah-sam's eyes, they were just clear.
So clear and transparent that he sometimes felt sorry for tormenting him all this time.
Today, too, Ma-ah-sam had woken up early in the morning and finished most of the work Machil was supposed to do.
Thanks to that, Machil was able to sleep a little longer in the family's backyard.
"Uwaaahm~."
Having slept more soundly than usual, Machil felt refreshed all over.
He stretched, yawned again, and scratched his belly.
He received his wages yesterday.
Every time, he spent all his wages at the Soaring Sun Inn.
That was his only joy in life.
In a life of being looked down upon, the only times he felt alive were when he spent his money freely and when he tormented So-sam, a human being lesser than him.
Because of this, from the first day of every month, he always counted down the days until he received his wages.
"My pockets are full today. Maybe I'll visit a different place for a change. I've heard good things about the food at the Apricot Tiger Inn."
Machil grinned and got up from his spot.
He immediately set off for the marketplace.
The reason he had changed his destination was that his pockets were thicker today than on a usual payday.
When Machil went to organize the weapons in the morning, So-sam had already finished the work, and on top of it was a leather pouch.
There was money inside, and he didn't even have to think about who had left it there.
"The little bastard. He's finally learned how to live in this world."
How could one live properly in this world by just bowing one's head, kneeling, begging, and pleading every day just because one has no power? If you have no power, you must know how to be flexible like this.
Machil decided that from now on, he would torment So-sam a little, just a tiny bit less.
Though if the amount of his tribute decreased, it might get worse.
A tune naturally flowed from Machil's lips as he headed toward the marketplace.