In a desolate corner of Littourborg, a large open space lay dormant, cloaked in a thin layer of ice that shimmered faintly under the overcast sky. Once, this place had been a bustling marketplace, filled with the lively chatter of traders and the clinking of coins.

But now, it was silent—a graveyard of memories, haunted by a series of mysterious disappearances that had driven the townsfolk away.

No one dared to set foot in a place so steeped in tragedy.

No one, except for Claude.

A solitary figure darted across the ice, his form a blur as he moved. Claude's body twisted and turned, skidding over the frozen ground. But as quickly as he moved, it was clear he hadn't mastered the art.

His control wavered, and before he could adjust, his momentum carried him straight into the unforgiving stone wall at the edge of the square.

Bang!

The impact echoed through the deserted marketplace. Claude's body crumpled against the wall, and he slid down to the icy floor, now utterly still. For a moment, only the cold wind whispered through the space.

"Dammnit! That wasn't a pleasant experience," Claude groaned, his breath escaping in visible puffs as he lay sprawled on the ground. The pain radiated through his body, but he managed a weak smile. "At least... there's some progress here..." he muttered between ragged breaths.

Since arriving in Littourborg, Claude had pushed himself relentlessly, driven by the memory of his encounter with Ag'ourth. He couldn't afford to be outmanoeuvred again.

And, being a sitting turret wasn't exactly the smartest way to win a battle.

The plan had seemed simple enough in theory: cover the ground in ice, and use it to glide with speed and agility, while throwing off any opponent foolish enough to challenge him on his icy terrain.

But...

"Why is skating on ice so damn hard?" Claude muttered under his breath, frustration gnawing at him.

He forced himself to sit up, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them on the ice. The surface was smooth, treacherous—unforgiving of even the smallest mistake.

Claude inhaled deeply, pushing aside the pain. His mind raced, recalling the countless attempts that had ended in failure, the times he had lost his balance, the crashes, and the bruises. But amidst the frustration, there was something else—a flicker of understanding.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling the ice beneath him. It wasn't just about speed. It was about rhythm, balance, the subtle shifts in weight that allowed him to stay upright, the way his feet connected with the ice, and the glide that carried him forward.

Taking another deep breath, Claude steadied himself. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the ice in front of him, visualizing the path he would take. This time, he wouldn't rely on brute force. He would move with the ice, not against it.

He pushed off gently, letting his body lean into the motion. His feet glided over the ice, and this time, instead of fighting the slide, he embraced it.

His muscles relaxed, and he found a rhythm—a smooth, almost effortless motion that carried him forward. His speed increased, but now it was controlled, purposeful.

A grin spread across Claude's face as he realised he was doing it. The ice was no longer an enemy to be conquered; it was a partner in his movement.

He swerved, making sharp turns, and though these movements were by no means perfect, they were a marked improvement from before.

Claude let out a triumphant laugh, exhilarated by the breakthrough. The pain and frustration—they all melted away, replaced by a sense of accomplishment. Finally, he had done it.

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As he glided to a stop, Claude looked out over the desolate square, indulging in his silence.

He knew, deep in his heart, that the next time he faced Ag'ourth—or any other foe—he would never be so helpless.

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Leaving behind the desolate square that had served as his training ground, Claude began making his way toward the nearby pharmacy.

"I hope I can replicate some of Agnes' potions..." he mused aloud.

"Even if the herbs here are different, with enough trial and error, it shouldn't be impossible. I just need to find herbs that share the same properties as the ones Agnes used..."

The reason he wanted to replicate the potions so badly, was due to a discovery he had made regarding them.

Agne's potions she used to help the soldiers recover from training, it wasn't as simple as relieving them of physical fatigue.

No.

It was able to wash away mental fatigue.

And that was all too invaluable to Claude. It meant he no longer had to simply rely on sleeping to recover his mental energy.

His thoughts spiralled deeper, recalling the lessons Agnes had given him.

She had been eager to share her knowledge, and Claude had soaked it up like a sponge, determined to carry that knowledge with him—especially now, in a world where the familiar herbs of his homeland were nowhere to be found.

As Claude wandered through the cobblestone streets, lost in contemplation, something unusual caught his eye.

Fwoosh!

A small, shadowy figure darted across his periphery, disappearing into a nearby alley.

"Was that a cat...?" Claude muttered, raising a brow. The figure had moved too quickly for him to get a good look, but there was something unsettling about its speed.

Did cats always move like that?

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but the image lingered in his mind. He could've sworn the figure had been moving on two legs.

The idea was absurd, yet his curiosity was piqued.

Compelled by an inexplicable urge, Claude veered off the main street and ventured into the alleyway.

The narrow passage was shrouded in shadows, the walls on either side tall and looming, closing in like the ribs of a great beast. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, the cobblestones cracked and worn with age.

Puddles of murky water reflected the overcast sky above. As he moved further into the alley, his eyes flicked toward a dilapidated building to his left. It was an old tavern, its wooden sign hanging askew, creaking in the wind.

The windows were boarded up, and the door sagged on its hinges, as if the slightest touch would send it crashing to the ground.

'Is that the abandoned tavern they were talking about back at the inn...?' Claude's gaze lingered on the building for a moment longer, recalling the conversation he had overheard.

'Seems normal enough,' he thought, dismissing the building with a shrug.

His attention was drawn back to the task at hand—the mysterious figure that had led him here. He pressed on, heading deeper into the alley, where the creature had vanished.

The alley narrowed further until it came to an abrupt dead end. There, sitting with its back to him, was the figure from earlier.

Claude squinted at the small, black shape. 'It really was a cat...?' he thought, uncertainty gnawing at him.

Meow!

The cat's cry echoed softly in the confined space, dispelling some of Claude's doubts. The creature seemed harmless enough—a stray, perhaps, wandering the alley in search of food.

Its fur was matted, and its tail flicked idly as it sat there, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

Satisfied that he had been mistaken, Claude turned to leave, shaking his head at his own foolishness. 'Just a cat... I must be more tired and stressed than I thought.'

But as he prepared to head back to the pharmacy, a sudden thought clawed its way to the forefront of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

'Hold on—' Claude paused mid-step, his brow furrowing in confusion. Something wasn't right.

He turned back to the cat, then glanced up at the sky above, which was still pale with the light of day. Then he looked back down at the cat.

'No... I'm not seeing wrong. It's daytime... But this cat...'

His heart skipped a beat as the realization dawned on him.

'It has no shadow...?!'

Claude's breath caught in his throat as his eyes locked onto the creature. The sun was weak, but it still cast faint shadows across the alley—except for where the cat sat. The ground beneath it was bare, untouched by any outline.

Claude's eyes froze as he stared at the cat, his mind racing. There was something deeply wrong with this creature—something unnatural.

Sensing his scrutiny, the 'cat' slowly turned its head, its movements unnervingly fluid.

At first glance, the creature's appearance was that of a normal black cat: sleek, with glossy fur that faintly gleamed.

Its eyes were a striking shade of green, wide and unblinking. They were bright. Almost too bright.

But then his gaze drifted lower, to the creature's mouth.

Its lips peeled back in a grotesque grin, revealing a gaping maw filled with jagged, misaligned teeth—teeth that seemed far too large for the creature's small head.

The grin stretched unnaturally wide, as if the skin of its face was being pulled back by invisible strings, forming a mocking smile.

Claude clenched his fists as he watched the cat's maw stretched further, revealing row upon row of serrated teeth, each one glinting wickedly in the dim light.

The cat—or whatever it was—stared back at him, its eyes gleaming with an intelligence well beyond that of any normal animal.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The alleyway was deathly silent, the only sound the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.