Chương 178: Chapter 160: A Five-Year Veteran Fan of a Two-Month-Old Team

[Time]: Summer Break, Day 41 — 12: 15 PM [Location]: The Crown of Ovelia · Grand Masters Main Arena · Outer Festival Grounds Being alone in Box 14 was no longer an option. The silence Victoria had left behind possessed genuine structural weight. It had settled into the velvet cushions and the reinforced spell-glass the way atmospheric pressure settled before a storm, invisible, total, and deeply hostile to continued occupation.

Hathaway had pulled up her terminal to order lunch delivery, looked at the empty room around her, and decided that forty minutes of waiting in that sealed quiet was roughly equivalent to waiting for a firing squad. She scooped the thick-furred, cow-spotted Explorer Lantern Cat off the sectional and walked out the door. The mid-summer heat hit her like a solid wall the moment she cleared the arena's air-conditioned perimeter. Witches, as a civilization, held strong opinions about atmospheric authenticity.

Climate wards were regarded with the mild contempt reserved for things that technically functioned but fundamentally missed the point. In her arms, the thick-furred cat went completely rigid. Its luminous eyes narrowed to slits. A thin, deeply aggrieved sound emerged from somewhere in its chest. Lantern Cats were designed by evolution to be magnificent. Nobody had consulted August about this. Hathaway drew a thread of mana and painted a localized [Chill Ward] directly across the cat's upper back.

White rime-frost crystallized along the edges of the cow-spots, the cool air settling into the dense undercoat like a physical blanket. The cat's ears snapped back to vertical.

"You're welcome," Hathaway said, shifting the considerable weight in her arms as she merged into the pedestrian flow.

"By the way. I never asked. What is your name?" The cat looked up at her, patient and unblinking.

"Meow-ow-ow."

"Right," Hathaway muttered.

"That is extremely helpful information. Thank you." She walked aimlessly. The festival grounds were a dense, disorganized collision of tourists and local vendors beneath banners snapping in the hot wind. Every massive holographic broadcast screen she passed was running the morning's highlights on an endless loop.

She walked past a towering projection of Lin Zhaojun on a wind-scoured alpine ridgeline, a lance of incandescent white light still cutting across the alpine stone in the replay behind her, keeping her eyes firmly locked on the cat in her arms, and kept moving. Then, the cargo initiated an unauthorized detachment protocol. The physical mass under her arm simply ceased to exist.

Between one step and the next, the Explorer Cat drifted upward out of her grip under its own buoyancy, ascending with the smooth, frictionless momentum of a helium balloon escaping a child's hand. Hathaway stopped.

"Hey." The cat did not look at her. Standard Lantern Cat behavioral architecture was famously, pathologically lazy. A Lantern Cat would, under normal operating conditions, prefer to remain stationary in a human's arms until the heat death of the universe rather than spend a single unit of ley-line energy on personal locomotion. This cat was not operating under normal conditions.

Its comically small, cartoonishly disproportionate feathered wings were producing an unprecedented, frantic blur of motion, flap-flap-flap-flap, generating approximately zero lift but broadcasting an intensity of singular purpose that vibrated through every individual whisker. It locked its nose onto a specific vector through the crowd and drifted forward at one-and-a-half times standard human walking speed without a single backward glance.

Rule one of Witch civilization, Hathaway's operational processor noted with grim resignation: Never contradict the navigation decisions of a Lantern Cat. If Victoria Wellington surrenders her sovereignty to this creature's judgment on a daily basis, I am not authorized to stage an intervention. She adjusted her pace and followed. The cat executed a sharp turn around a massive structural pillar and stopped dead in the air. Hathaway cleared the corner three paces later, and stopped.

The first thing her eyes registered was a wall of fur. Then her gaze traveled upward, and kept traveling. It was an Explorer Lantern Cat. But that taxonomic label felt structurally insufficient for the entity hovering in the middle of the plaza. A [Greater Explorer Lantern Cat]. Five meters tall, easily. Victoria's pet hovered immediately beside its left ear like an unbaked bread roll next to a cathedral.

The Greater Cat wore a heavy-duty utility belt strapped across its enormous, glowing white belly, bristling with industrial carbon-steel pickaxes and a colossal spatial backpack the size of a studio apartment bolted to its shoulders. Rising from its upper spine was a pair of fully extended, magnificently proportioned feathered wings. Perched precariously atop its massive head was a custom-stitched, oversized baseball cap. Its long, extraordinarily fluffy tail curled around its feet like a localized weather system.

Her chest had felt like a caved-in mineshaft. She had genuinely believed her emotional bandwidth for joy had been entirely depleted. But looking at this impossible creature, her heavy heart gave a violent, involuntary thud. Life, her tactical processor whispered, is still worth living. Even if the universe folded in on itself tomorrow, even if her own physical continuity ceased to exist in the very next second, her soul would still stubbornly and fiercely beat for a five-meter-tall cat wearing a baseball cap.

Her lore database parsed the hat and the tail. Catolf. Teams of three Lantern Cats driving oversized balls across floating islands using their magnificent tails as clubs. Occasionally, a rare variant or a Greater Cat would wander onto the course, elevating the match from a simple game to a natural disaster of catastrophic cuteness. The official rulebook could be summarized as legalized vandalism with an eighteen-hole scoring system.

This specific Greater Explorer Cat had clearly just come off a course as a celebrity ringer. It was patting its own enormous belly with tremendous self-satisfaction, the golden glow of its wings casting warm light across the surrounding plaza. The sheer, unapologetic smugness radiating from its massive whiskers confirmed everything Hathaway needed to know about the final score. Stolen story; please report.

Victoria's small, cow-spotted cat let out a joyful chirp and hurled itself directly into the Greater Cat's chest fur. The larger creature stopped its celebratory belly-patting. It looked down. Something warm and maternal settled into its massive feline face. It raised a single sofa-cushion-sized paw and gently, rhythmically pressed the small cat closer.

"One standard Cat-par, max roll on the green!" bellowed a voice from directly beside the Greater Cat's right paw.

"Two standard Cat-pars, we press the ante! Three standard Cat-pars, we're buying a house in the White City, baby!" Hathaway found the source. A Witch stood at the base of the Greater Cat, executing what could only be described as a full choreographed victory sequence. She had short, messy jet-black hair and enormous burnt-orange eyes that radiated the specific, incandescent energy of someone who had been right about something extremely profitable and had decided to announce this to the general public.

She wore a white headband with [MEOW!] printed across the front in thick, unambiguous letters. In her left hand, she gripped a bottle of liquor that was irresponsibly large. In her right, she was waving a neon Catolf cheering flag with a commitment that suggested several hours of practice. Hathaway stepped forward, smoothing her posture into an apologetic line.

"Excuse me. My roommate's cat flew away on its own. I'm sorry for the disruption." The Witch stopped her dance. She blinked her large burnt-orange eyes, looked at the small cow-spotted cat burrowed into the Greater Cat's chest fur, and threw her flag arm wide with a booming laugh.

"Disruption? Nonsense! An encounter between cats is the purest form of fate!" She slammed the bottle onto the adjacent table.

"Fate means I'm buying lunch. Sit down!" She pulled out a chair with her boot and thrust out her free hand.

"Mihaye Grün. Folklore and Arcane Archaeology. And this champion of the floating greens," she jerked her thumb toward the five-meter-tall feline, "is Katalu." At the sound of its name, the Greater Cat paused its rumbling purr just long enough to give its own enormous, glowing white belly two resounding, deeply satisfied pats.

"Hathaway von Ludwig." She took the hand. Katalu. Her lore database flagged the linguistic structure immediately. She remembered the Greater Storm Cat: Katdoastin. The Kat- prefix was an exclusive taxonomic marker reserved strictly for Greater Lantern Cats, translating roughly to something between 'Magnificent' and 'Your Imperial Highness.' The name Mihaye Grün, however, returned a null value in her internal registry.

She wasn't listed among the active Arch-Witches, she held no Council seat, and she didn't appear on any Grand Masters roster. Folklore and Arcane Archaeology was a notorious academic backwater, populated almost entirely by Witches who preferred cataloguing ruins on remote frontier worlds over navigating institutional politics. The Minothnago Academy specialized in exactly that field.

But anyone who possessed a Greater Lantern Cat partner and dispatched a lunch invite without blinking was, by definition, operating with a financial profile that had nothing to do with their official title. A hidden whale, Hathaway's processor updated the assessment. The academic classification is camouflage. The afternoon session's pre-match graphics had already started rolling across the overhead screens.

Mihaye dropped into the chair across from her, leaning her elbows on the table, her burnt-orange eyes lit with the aggressive enthusiasm of someone tracking a live high-stakes race.

"Royal Rosas got absolutely liquidated this morning. Lin Zhaojun is finally back in peak form!" She slapped the table.

"After that Sector 7 sequence, I'm pretty sure even the undead witches in the Underworld were logging on to watch. Pure cinema! So, who are you backing for the afternoon draw?" Hathaway sat very still. I am a substitute player for Royal Rosas, she thought, her expression going entirely flat. My team was just eliminated in the knockout stage. I should be experiencing a completely legitimate spike of tribal indignation right now. The indignation dutifully attempted to form. It lasted half a second.

The 'Reignite Flame' combo was frame-perfect, her developer brain noted, with quiet, helpless fidelity to the facts. She is completely right. The holographic screen above them displayed the bracket. [Knockout Stage, Round One: Sunshine Pals versus Greed Umbrella.]"Greed Umbrella," Hathaway said flatly. It wasn't sentiment. It was surviving the apocalypse. Mihaye slammed her fist onto the table. The bottle rattled.

"Greed Umbrella! Yes!" She pointed at Hathaway with the absolute conviction of a prophet delivering confirmed prophecy.

"You have an incredible eye. I'm telling you, they are taking the entire tournament. If you haven't placed your bets yet, you need to go to the kiosk right now and liquidate your margins. Guaranteed money." Hathaway's right eye gave a microscopic twitch. Pure, unfiltered degenerate gambler energy, her developer brain diagnosed without hesitation. The dilated pupils. The certainty. The aggressive financial advice delivered to a stranger forty seconds after introductions.

Why does a woman with a Greater Lantern Cat partner exude the exact atmospheric pressure of a witch who spends her nights on the roof of an off-track betting parlor?

"Against Lin Zhaojun?" Hathaway offered carefully.

"And Irene?" Mihaye scoffed, taking a massive swig directly from the bottle.

"Facts, not feelings! I backed them from the regional qualifiers! For the group stage I had a heavy line on them sweeping their block, not dropping a single match!" My team was in that group stage. You are currently using our very public defeat as an itemized receipt to prove your gambling instincts are financially superior. The spike of pure, tribal indignation was immediate and sincere. The first wave of food arrived before it could go anywhere.

Because a standard Witch already treated the biological limits of caloric intake as a polite suggestion, and a Greater Lantern Cat burned energy like an active biological fusion reactor, putting them at the same table escalated Mihaye's definition of "buying lunch" into a logistical monument. The table vanished beneath a tidal wave of cast iron and stoneware.

Short ribs from the oven, the meat so thoroughly rendered it separated from the bone at the suggestion of a fork, drizzled in a parsnip-and-mashed-potato reduction with wild blueberry dressing. Thick, hand-pulled wheat noodles tangled with Hortania dragon meat strips, a regional specialty that smelled, aggressively and specifically, like heaven and violence. Individual cast-iron pots of creamy seafood chowder, topped with puffed, golden pastry lids that hissed steam when breached.

For dessert: molten lava cakes alongside a layered confection of milk-cream and white chocolate, injected to the brim with honey aged in osmanthus-flower barrels. Hathaway looked at the spread. The indignation quietly packed its bags and departed through a side exit. Moral high grounds are temporary, her developer brain conceded, already picking up a fork. Oven-roasted short ribs with blueberry reduction are forever. The drink cart arrived simultaneously.

Moon Sugar in crystal dishes, lemon whiskey, and Abyssal Mandrake-brewed beer in heavy clay flagons. Mihaye produced a ceramic decanter from somewhere and set it squarely in front of Hathaway.

"Huaizhen wine," Mihaye said, pouring with the authority of someone who had already decided.

"Eastern Sea vintage. Low-proof. Tastes like expensive soda, kicks like a summer breeze. The perfect afternoon wine." Hathaway took a sip. It was cold, carbonated, carrying a bright mellow lift that cut through the residual heat and the residual sandiness behind her eyes with the clean efficiency of a system purge. The food is exceptional, her survival module logged. The whale is paying. I am therefore contractually and morally obligated to function as a flawless conversational NPC for the next forty-five minutes.

I will nod. I will smile. I will maintain a state of total, unconditional baseline agreement.

"Yes, yes, absolutely, excellent read, Professor." This is the price of the meal. The price is extremely reasonable. Mihaye refilled her own glass, leaned across the table, and fixed Hathaway with the earnest, laser-focused gaze of a true believer preparing to share a revelation with a convert.

"I'm telling you," Mihaye said, her burnt-orange eyes steady.

"I am a five-year veteran fan of the Greed Umbrella." Hathaway paused. The puff pastry was halfway to her mouth. She slowly lowered it. Her dormitory. Cecilia's voice through the communication array, unhurried and glowing:"Greed Umbrella is officially registered." Victoria's grip going white on the edge of her desk. Two months ago. She set the pastry down entirely. She looked at Mihaye's completely earnest, beer-flushed face.

She looked at the Greater Explorer Cat, which had apparently decided that the small cow-spotted creature was now a permanent fixture, and had arranged its enormous, luminous belly into the most accommodating configuration possible. The arena chime rolled across the festival grounds. The pre-match countdown for the afternoon session had reached its final minute.

Mihaye instantly whipped her head toward the nearest holographic screen, her burnt-orange eyes locking onto the bracket display with the total, terrifying absorption of a gambler watching the gates open. Hathaway raised the ceramic cup of Huaizhen wine to her lips and took a long, deliberate sip. She did not correct the math.

Outside the pavilion, her small, cow-spotted cat had completely flattened itself across the Greater Cat's vast, glowing belly, its tiny feathered wings folded, tucked tight against its sides, its little paws still. It looked significantly more comfortable than it had at any point inside Box 14. The screen flared gold. The afternoon session rendered its first frame.