I stagger backward and sit down under the intense pressure from the maids. I’d already eaten a ton of snacks just a moment ago. So why are they suddenly telling me to eat more snacks again? Did the ghost of a cat that died from not getting snacks in a past life latch onto them or something?
“Nabi, you have to eat your snack~.”
Deciding that this wasn’t going anywhere, Julia puts on a nasal, cutesy voice. I shoot her a sharp glare and smack the bowl she’s holding right out of her hands.
What is wrong with you people? I’m not some cat who eats just because you tell me to.
But then—what the hell?
Julia stares blankly at the bowl I knocked away, her eyes welling up with tears. What the hell. These women really are possessed by snack ghosts.
“Nabi, you have to eat your snacks properly for your fur to stay glossy. It’s already been getting rough lately. Right?”
Huh? My fur?!
Startled, I dash straight to the mirror.
Now that I look closely, it does seem a little rougher than usual… or maybe not…?
As I examine myself from every angle, Julia follows along and fiddles with the fur on my back, putting on a grave expression.
“Oh my. Look at this. Your fur’s really damaged. What should we do? It must be because you’re lacking nutrients—it is winter, after all.”
What. Seriously?
When I turn my back toward the mirror, it does look a bit frizzy.
“Oh my. You’re right.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
The other maids who followed along chime in one by one.
This can’t be happening.
I go momentarily blank from the incoming shock.
My fur should be dripping with gloss, and you’re telling me it’s frizzy? A nutritionally deficient, frizzy-furred cat—there could be no greater humiliation than this.
As I sit there in a daze, Julia subtly holds out a piece of jerky.
“Nabi. Shall we eat a snack now?”
I snap up the jerky in front of my eyes and clamp down on it. Then I start chewing with the intensity of a battlefield soldier.
***
Living as a cat is never easy.
A true cat maintains well-groomed fur even when cold and starving. Even if I’m on the verge of starving to death tomorrow, I won’t eat food offered by a human I don’t like. When I walk, it’s light and elegant. Even when I have to run in a hurry, I never let my footsteps sound. Cats spare no effort to preserve their graceful, aristocratic bearing.
And I’m no exception.
In fact, I put in far more effort than ordinary cats. I have my dignity to uphold as the Crown Prince cat.
Every night before sleeping, I bathe in warm water. I dry my fur thoroughly and brush it to perfection before going to bed. My meals are carefully prepared by chefs who take nutritional balance into account, and in between, I consume high-nutrition snacks. All of it is for the sake of maintaining beautiful, luxuriant fur.
Yes. Beautiful, luxuriant fur. Fur that gleams with flowing gloss.
Fur. Fur. Fur. Fur. Fur. Fur!
“…Is it good?”
As I chew my snack with militant determination, Simon asks. I respond by snorting instead of answering.
Ever since being shocked by the state of my frizzy fur, I’ve been giving my all to nutritional intake. I’ve increased my meal portions, and on top of that, I’m devouring high-protein snacks several times a day. The maids diligently supply me with all kinds of snacks at regular intervals. Truly admirable of them.
To be honest, overeating and excessive snacking don’t align with my aesthetics.
A proper cat is content with a moderate amount of food and snacks. If I were to gorge myself on everything in sight, how would I be any different from those lowly dogs? But right now, I have no choice. If I want to nourish my fur, I have to eat diligently.
A grand banquet will be held soon. Lyx and I have already prepared our couple outfits. If I’m to stand proudly before countless nobles, I need to restore my fur’s gloss as quickly as possible. If I were to show up looking shabby, I might die of shame on the spot.
“Can I have just one?”
Simon sneaks a hand toward my jerky. I ruthlessly smack his hand away with my front paw. Daring to covet the precious jerky meant to boost my fur appeal—you’re not even my friend. You muscle-brained idiot.
“So stingy.”
The guy mutters under his breath, but I pretend not to hear and continue chewing my jerky with gusto.
The jerky I’m eating right now isn’t just any jerky—it’s a specially ordered chicken-breast jerky. I personally requested it from the chef to supplement protein intake. If I keep eating this diligently for a few days, my fur will surely regain its glossy sheen, and my muscles will become even firmer and more supple.
Ah—… they say salmon oil is the best thing for cat fur.
That cousin of mine who’s obsessed with horse muscles also keeps a cat. She bragged endlessly about photos she took on her phone—omega-3 this, salmon oil that, making a huge fuss. I tuned it out back then, but now I’m desperately craving that damn oil. If salmon oil were to appear in front of me right now, I’d be willing to down an entire bottle without even breathing. But asking for that here would be too much, so I have no choice but to settle for chicken-breast jerky.
I’ve chewed so much jerky that my jaw is starting to go numb. I’m worried my jaw muscles might get paralyzed at this rate. Wouldn’t it be easier to grind the chicken breast into powder and just drink it instead? If I were in Korea, I’d probably be chugging protein powder instead of jerky. No—if I were in Korea, I’d be drinking salmon oil.
…Ah. Right. Then I wouldn’t be a cat in the first place. Damn it.
The way that idiot Simon is staring at me from the side is seriously uncomfortable.
Seriously though, what does this guy even do to earn his salary? All he ever does is trail after me all day.
He’s supposedly a knight commander, yet he gets captured by bandits, runs away from home and survives penniless, bawls his eyes out because the woman he liked got married—and now he’s squatting next to me, coveting someone else’s jerky.
Hey. You’re drooling.
I let out a sigh at the sight of my friend who can’t take his eyes off the jerky.
There’s not a single dependable guy around me. Starting with my soft-hearted Lyx and going all the way to this idiot Simon, they’re all just flashy on the outside. Every last one of them is someone I have to look after. Oh, woe is me.
And yet, despite that, this guy has the nerve to glare at me and keep watch. Ever since I snapped my leg drifting down the corridor, he’s been like this. In his own way, he thinks he’s protecting me from getting hurt, but all he does is interfere with my fun at every turn.
It started with drifting—the thing I’d sworn I’d succeed at once my leg healed.
The moment I sprinted down the corridor and slid across the marble floor, some damn cushion blocked my path. It was only after I was buried in the plush cushion that I understood why the attendants had been following me around holding cushions. Naturally, I threw a massive tantrum and raked long scratches across someone’s face. But muscle-brain Simon didn’t even flinch. From there, the interference never stopped. It even extended to my dream of swimming in gold coins.
My chicken-breast jerky. Like hell I’ll give you any. You idiot. Hmph!
I make a point of chewing the jerky loudly, crunch crunch.
Looks good, doesn’t it? Looks delicious, right?
Simon swallows hard. Watching him like that, my mood—already dampened by my fur issues—starts to improve. Truly, nothing lifts one’s spirits like someone else’s misery.
“Um…”
I’m in the middle of thoroughly tormenting the muscle-brain when Julia suddenly approaches. And then—unbelievably—she holds out a basket piled high with beef jerky toward Simon?!
“Please have some, Sir Licht.”
What kind of situation is this supposed to be?
I momentarily forget to chew my jerky and look back and forth between the two. Julia’s flushed cheeks. Simon’s face turned as red as a carrot. And then—
“Th-th-th-thank you. ……… Lady Julia. Ahem. Khm.”
The muscle-brain accepts the jerky basket with the solemn reverence of someone receiving a sacred relic.
This situation is clearly…
……
……
Ah—!
A sudden realization strikes my mind, sending a shiver through me.
Julia and Simon… are they a thing? Eek. Eeh. Ihh?
No. Absolutely not. That’s impossible. It must never be allowed to happen.
Julia is my woman—well, not exactly, but she’s mine!
Her kind face, her gentle and warm heart, and most importantly, her big, beautiful, bouncy breasts—all of it belongs to me!
Overcome with surging rage, I leap to my feet and unleash a terrifying front-paw punch at the jerky basket Simon is clutching so dearly.
“Ah—!”
“Huh?”
The basket and jerky scatter across the floor as the two of them stare in shock. Seizing that moment, I spring straight up into Julia’s chest.
“Nabi?!”
