What the hell do I do with this cat?

  It’s walking with us, all cozy with me and the old man while looking smug.. Should I give him some food, play the nice guy for a second, then kick him out? Yeah, that’s not gonna work. The bastard’s the one who brought me here. It was all his doing. If I so much as try to fight back, I’m screwed. And not just a little—like, down to a 1% chance of survival, if I’m being generous. Or, hell, maybe even 0%.

  Who knows what kind of power he’s packing? He can talk, for one. That’s not normal. So, I guess I’ll just sit tight, pretend to listen to whatever he’s gonna spout, and hope it doesn’t get worse. At least nobody else can hear him. Wait—scratch that, it’s actually worse. It’s just me and him. Every damn word.

  “Hmph. This breadroll’s decent, Gawn. How’d you manage to get your hands on a free one?”

  “Charmed the lady, old man,” I replied back, rolling my eyes as we walked along the thinning crowd by the gates. “Told her I’d bring in more customers.”

  Randall barked out a rough laugh, crumbs sticking in his beard. I couldn’t help but grin. For a second—just a second—I caught the cat side-eyeing me.

  Ye…. Real funny. What an absolutely incredible little bastard.

  Randall tore another bite off his bread, shaking his head. “And what? Don’t tell me you sweet-talked this furball too?” His gaze slid toward Ricusoss.

  I just smirked and kept walking. I didn’t need to answer that.

  Of course, Ricusoss had other ideas.

  “Tch. This wrinkled tree stump’s got jokes,” the cat spoke, with only words I could hear. “How’ve you not buried him yet? You getting soft on me, boy?”

  God, shut up.

  I didn’t even bother responding. Out loud or otherwise. Feeding him attention was like feeding strays — they just keep coming back louder.

  The road stretched on — rough dirt underfoot, patches of dying grass beneath our boots. We’d been walking for about an hour now, maybe less. Randall stayed quiet for the most part.

  Eventually, though, I broke it. I started rambling to him about pricing structures. How different stalls or shops jacked up goods depending on supply, demand, and whether or not the merchant felt like screwing you. Of course, I dumbed it down — talked like a kid, because that’s what I was supposed to be. Would’ve been suspicious otherwise.

  Randall listened. Nodded here and there. The man was patient — I’ll give him that.

  But Ricusoss?

  Never. Shut. Up.

  Kept talking. Kept sniping in my head as if he was some furry little parasite who didn’t care I was seconds away from a migraine.

  I swear he knew I wasn’t going to answer him. And that only made him double down. By the time we reached the treeline, my head was pounding crazy. And this was supposed to be the easy part of my new life.

  Kill me.

  ?

  When we got back, the old man’s knees finally betrayed him.

  Collapsed right there on that crooked excuse for a bed. Didn’t even argue with it. Just laid there — still as a corpse, snoring like a dying bear — for hours.

  And then, like some kind of lunatic priest resurrected by sheer stubbornness, he got up. Groaned. Stretched. And went back to work.

  I swear, I’ve met salesmen who’d crawl through broken glass for commission checks — but this guy? Different breed entirely. Not the desperate kind. Not the greedy kind. Just... carved out of something harder. Some people rot when they’re worn down. Randall just kept hammering nails into himself and calling it living.

  It was... annoying.

  And maybe a little inspiring.

  Whatever. Point is — I got restless.

  Wasn’t doing anything productive besides reading through some old book. So I stood up. Looked around this dust-ridden shack we called a house. Decided — screw it — I’m gonna clean.

  Top to bottom. Floor to ceiling. Make it shine. Which, obviously, triggered the peanut gallery.

  “Pathetic,” Ricusoss scoffed from his throne on the windowsill. “You really think scrubbing dirt like some servant’s gonna get you anywhere in this world?” His voice dripped with disgust. “Tch. Waste of time. Dirt comes back anyway.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But I kept wiping. Harder. Slower. Let the silence bite at my ears until it was just me, the rag, and the steady ache crawling up my arms. By the end of it, I was drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to me. My legs aching. My back muscles were moving.

  I lay there — flat on my back, staring at the wooden ceiling. “What a day,” I muttered to nobody.

  But honestly? This wasn’t even in my top ten worst days. Not after the life I left behind.

  Office life. Yeah, that corporate graveyard where dreams go to choke quietly under the lights. Where you smile at people you want to throat-punch because rent's due next week. Where "teamwork" means doing three people’s jobs for one paycheck.

  God, I stayed there for years. Not because I loved it — hell no — but because money talks. And broke people listen.

  "Blame that on your flimsy twig body," Ricusoss drawled from somewhere above me.

  I didn’t even lift my head. "Wow. Thanks for the sympathy."

  Ricusoss landed beside me with that effortless, predatory grace he had. His paws barely made a sound.

  "I am giving you sympathy," he said, deadpan. "That’s why training starts tomorrow. Before you snap in half just walking across a room."

  Oh, perfect.

  "Help me," I groaned, mostly to myself.

  ?

  Sunlight crept in — sliding through the windows, across the floor, and finally landing on my face.

  Warm. Annoyingly warm.

  I shifted, groaning. Something was... off. A weird pressure on my stomach. Not pain, just that prickling instinct that told me someone or something was way too close.

  I opened one eye.

  And there he was.

  Ricusoss.. Perched right on my stomach — little paws casually punching at me as if I was some broken vending machine that owed him snacks.

  I almost died on the spot. Not from fear — from sheer insult.

  "What the hell are you doing?" My voice was pure gravel.

  Ricusoss flicked his tail, eyes half-lidded. "Tch. First day of training and you're already late."

  There it was — the click of his tongue. The sound of my impending suffering.

  "Unfortunate for you, kid. That means punishment."

  I sat up so fast he had to jump off unless he wanted to get launched across the room — which, believe me, would’ve made my year.

  "What are you talking about?" I croaked. And then it hit me.

  Training.

  Oh hell.

  I forgot.

  Again.

  Eventually — after what felt like a war crime of a morning routine — I choked down breakfast and followed Ricusoss out to the forest.

  Turns out the "punishment" wasn’t some sparring or some brutal martial arts thing.

  Nah.

  It was worse.

  He made me dig.

  With my hands.

  Bare. Dirty. Bloody. Pathetic little human hands scraping at the ground.

  "Character building," Ricusoss called it.

  Yeah, I’ll build you a character, alright. Six feet under. Hardwood coffin. Fresh flowers if I'm feeling generous.

  I stabbed my fingers into the dirt harder.

  Just you wait, you smug bastard.

  This pit?

  It's got your name on it.

  But I didn’t expect him to make me fill the pit back in.

  Seriously. After digging halfway to hell, the smug bastard just pointed a paw and said, "Put it back."

  And I did. With dirt-stained hands and tears sliding down my jaw and soaking into my collar. I’m pretty sure he was laughing. I didn’t look. Didn’t care. The old man would save me. He had to.

  Right?

  "Training starts now, human." Ricusoss yawned. Then his eyes snapped. "Thirty minutes. Crawl. Chest to the dirt. If your knees touch the ground..." He flicked his tail once. That was all. “Start over.”

  Oh, hell no.

  But I did it.

  Crawled as if I was a damn worm, dragging myself through grit and dead leaves, mud clinging to my shirt. My body screamed. My pride curled up and died somewhere around minute twelve. By the time thirty hit, I wasn’t even thinking. I was just moving.

  No sign of the old man..

  Next, Ricusoss tossed out something called "silent movement drills." Translation: walk across crunchy death-traps like dry leaves, twigs, and jagged rocks—reach him without making a sound.

  And to summarize it: I failed. Over. And over. And over.

  Every time I slipped up, he’d tap his paw on my back. Not hard and it wasn't that painful. Just enough to sting my ego.

  And somehow, that hurt worse.

  By the end of it, my feet were torn up—raw callouses and split skin. My knees? Red, bruised, shredded. And yet… I didn’t stop.

  Short bursts came next. Sprinting. Leaping. Crouch-walking.

  Every motion burned. My muscles were molting off the bone. My brain had unplugged halfway through, running on fumes and caffeine ghosts.

  And then—I cracked.

  “Lord Ricu,” I gasped. “How the hell are this kid’s senses so sharp? Was I—was I born with that? Am I some kind of freak prodigy or…”

  I didn’t even know what I was asking anymore. My brain had liquefied. My mouth was operating on emotional debris and spite.

  Ricusoss didn’t flinch. Just narrowed his eyes and gave me that classic look of him.

  "That's 'cause you've got the skills of a stray, you useless little bastard,” he said. “But you’re too damn stupid to use them properly.”

  I blinked.

  Right.

  I couldn’t tell you how long I’d been training. Days blurred together, stitched with sweat, bruises, and the unholy ache in my legs.

  One minute I was balancing on a thin log, the next I was climbing trees, mimicking a cat's movements — arched back, twisted rolls, weird animal contortions that made me feel like I was glitching out of my own body.

  At some point, the old man caught me mid-pose. Arms out. Spine curved. Face locked in an expression that said, please don’t ask. I panicked. Told him I was doing... warrior stretches or something. Some absolute nonsense. Didn’t stick.

  But instead of calling me out, he just invited me in for lunch — which, to my complete disbelief, meant a break. An actual, honest-to-god break.

  Ricusoss looked like someone had told him yarn was outlawed. Eyes narrowed, tail twitching. But I didn’t push it. My legs were screaming loud enough to drown out his attitude anyway. Every step felt like my muscles were peeling themselves apart.

  Is this normal? I thought, staring down at my twitching thighs. Or did I just override the warranty on this kid’s body?

  After lunch, Randall asked if I wanted to talk. Outside. Casual.

  Ricusoss shot me another one of his you lazy sack of bones glares, but I ignored it and followed the old man out. I figured if he was inviting me specifically, he had something on his mind.

  We sat on the creaky wooden chairs near the porch. Ricusoss plopped beside me.

  “That cat,” Randall muttered, nodding at him. “Got a name yet? Or’s he just freeloadin’? Looks like he’s glued to your hip whether you like it or not.”

  Yeah. Believe me, I didn’t like it. And I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

  “The name’s Ricusoss,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Just came up with it.”

  “Ricusoss?” he echoed, scratching his chin. “Huh. Name rings a bell. Can’t place it, but… I’ve heard that somewhere.”

  My mouth wanted to spit out something snarky. A nickname. A jab. Worst cat in the history of ever. But Ricusoss was sitting right next to me. I could feel his stare on my skin. So I shut up. Swallowed the joke. Coward move, but it's survival instinct.

  Then Randall shifted, rubbed the back of his neck as if he was trying to loosen something he couldn’t quite say.

  “So… listen,” he said slowly. “Tomorrow’s comin’. What d’you wanna do?”

  I blinked. “Tomorrow?”

  “Your birthday, ain’t it? So… what d’you want, kid?”

  I stared at him.

  Birthday?

  My brain hiccuped. I almost laughed. Not because it was funny — because I genuinely had no idea.

  So it was this kid’s birthday tomorrow. Huh.

  Weird how that felt more like trivia than anything meaningful.

  Back in my old life, birthdays weren’t celebrations — they were check-ins. Deadlines. A day to sit with the creeping dread of getting older while everyone around me hit their goals, bought houses, launched companies. I spent mine working my ass off and pretending I wasn’t drowning.

  So yeah. Birthdays? Not really my thing.

  “Hah… talk about timing,” Ricusoss purred. “If you’re smart, you’ll ask him for a wooden sword. Not that you’ll know how to use it yet.”

  A wooden sword? What was this, training again? Was he my commander now?

  I could already see it: Ricusoss grinning like the smug little devil he was while forcing me to swing that thing around until my arms fell off. Calling it a “gift” was just... code for more suffering.

  Still, when Randall asked, I didn’t have anything better. I’d thought about books — magic ones, even. But I've read that books weren’t actually made for commoners, that made me think of how Randall was given one. Books were locked away in noble homes, wrapped in silk and status. In places where people didn’t scrape mud off their soles before dinner.

  Asking for something like that felt... insulting. So I just shrugged, gave Ricusoss a quick side-eye, and surrendered to the inevitable. “Yeah. I’ll go with the wooden sword.”

  Randall raised an eyebrow. “Wooden sword, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said again, softer this time. “But you don’t have to, like… do it right away or anything.”

  He let out a short laugh, the kind that said he wasn’t buying my deflection for a second. “What’s this then? You plannin’ to be a soldier now? Or just feel like swingin’ sticks for fun? You serious about this?”

  I scratched at the side of my face, suddenly aware of how much dirt was still caked under my nails. I hadn’t thought it through. Not really. But it felt like the right kind of stupid. The kind that might actually lead somewhere.

  “Dunno,” I muttered. “I just think it’d be fun to try.”