Cat 110: The Temporary Team Disbands
by CristaeChapter 110: The Temporary Team Disbands
If Qi Feng tried to list all the people he’d offended, even a thick notebook wouldn’t suffice. With nothing but genuine candor, he managed to drive Fu Guangming halfway up the wall.
If someone had met him recently in a dungeon, perhaps they’d remember, but Qi Feng truly had no impression of this man.
Fu Guangming drew a deep breath. “I’m with the New Power Guild. My guild leader is Yu Zhe. In the last dungeon, you stole our guild’s mission.”
Qi Feng remained unruffled, utterly indifferent. “Oh? And?”
Fu Guangming’s eyes blazed as his hostility toward Qi Feng grew more intense. “I’m here to settle the score, obviously.”
Qi Feng thought for a moment. “In the dungeon I entered, I’m pretty sure Yu Zhe’s team didn’t include you.”
That only made Fu Guangming angrier, reading it as a slight on his ability—not being selected to enter with his guild leader.
He recalled his own branch being blown up and said, “What concerns the guild concerns me. Don’t forget, your people destroyed my branch. It makes sense for me to settle things with you.”
Since leaving the dungeon, Qi Feng had been more concerned about his own Caramel than the provocations from the New Power Guild, but that didn’t mean he knew nothing of their branch’s destruction. Regardless, it wasn’t their doing.
He hadn’t planned to explain the truth. The other side had clearly already decided to blame his group; explanations would be pointless, as well as unnecessary—he had enemies aplenty. He simply replied, “And how are you sure it was my people? Your guild must have plenty of enemies.”
Fu Guangming shot back, “Because I blew up your tavern. You’re here for revenge.”
Yan Jiyun snorted. “So you smashed up someone’s tavern, yet don’t allow them to hit back? That’s some robber’s logic.”
Qi Feng glanced at Yan Jiyun, then stepped in front of him, unwilling to waste more breath. “If you want a match, fine.”
Initially Yan Jiyun had wanted to play the bystander behind his Cat Dad, but as the one who’d actually blown up the New Power branch, he was ready to shoulder the blame and take some heat for Qi Feng. But the target was clearly Qi Feng—his lack of a guild made him seem vulnerable, which was probably why they targeted his tavern rather than another guild’s. It was just bullying; if things went badly, they’d flee.
Instead, it was Fu Guangming who lacked confidence when he met Qi Feng’s steady, fearless gaze. This was a man every guild wanted. Qi Feng sat atop the points leaderboard—he could wear out anyone.
When Qi Feng agreed to his challenge, Fu Guangming lost his nerve.
The watching crowd began to jeer.
“You aren’t getting cold feet, are you? Qi Feng agreed!”
“Yeah, he’s in first place! Take him down and all his points are yours!”
Someone familiar with Fu Guangming shouted from the crowd, “Fu Guangming, get him! We’re all rooting for you!”
The more Fu Guangming listened, the more off he felt. These people were pushing him to his death, just seeking to use him to weaken Qi Feng. Should he succeed, they’d just turn on him next. Sacrificing his own points to wear down Qi Feng would do him no favors—it would only benefit those around him.
Suddenly, Fu Guangming changed his mind, seizing on the crowd’s clamor to make a retreat: “Heh, I won’t play your game. Let’s go!”
And so he led his people away, retreating in something close to a rout.
Qi Feng had cowed them with nothing but presence—was it even worth it?
They’d meet again anyway; no one could avoid it forever.
With no more drama or easy prey, the other players turned their attention to Angel City, losing interest in any further fallout between players. After all, they only wanted excitement.
Qi Feng turned to Yan Jiyun and Chu Mo, who were standing behind him. “As you can see, I don’t have many friends here. I’ve made a lot of enemies. From here on, I’ll be acting alone to look for a way out. I won’t be traveling with you two.”
Yan Jiyun wanted to keep teaming up with Qi Feng, but couldn’t bring himself to say so. After all, their relationship could only be called “a brief acquaintance.”
Qi Feng caught the look in his eyes and asked, “Is there something you want to say?”
Yan Jiyun shook his head. “Nothing.”
Qi Feng replied, “Thank you both for saving me. In all the battles to come, rest assured I won’t stand against either of you. Good luck.”
Chu Mo nodded. Everyone understood.
A temporary team didn’t mean sticking together forever. Now, any of them could become a rival—each stage in the game would only increase the pressure.
When it came down to it, Qi Feng simply didn’t trust them. His wariness was higher than anyone’s.
Yan Jiyun respected his choice. He checked the time remaining on his experience card—twenty minutes.
Qi Feng led the pegasus into the crowd and vanished from sight. Yan Jiyun watched for a moment, lamenting to himself: What a lost opportunity; he would have been a great ally.
Left, Yan Jiyun and Chu Mo looked at each other.
Chu Mo spoke first, gesturing ahead. “I’ll go as well. I hope we won’t become enemies in the next round.”
Yan Jiyun nodded. “Alright. Until we meet again.”
Chu Mo made a fist-to-palm salute. “Until we meet again.”
【Want to Be Human】 Livestream:
“I don’t know why, but I think the kitten looks a little sad. In the Demon Forest, the team worked so well together, and now they’ve suddenly split. He probably isn’t used to it—seeing a level five and level four streamer leave, it makes me want to cry. He’s just a newbie—a little sapling.”
“Yeah, I feel so melancholic—even though it’s not a tearjerker, there’s this sense of farewell.”
“Maybe it’s because the kitten’s never dealt with this before. All his former teammates were new, always willing to cooperate. He’s kind—he didn’t give up in the hide-and-seek dungeon, even when there were two disabled players. Now, he’s the one left behind. Of course he’s unhappy.”
“Hug the kitten, don’t cry, it hurts my heart. Why is this suddenly so sad?”
“Poor kitten, don’t mind them—veterans are all heartless!”
In truth, Yan Jiyun wasn’t particularly sad; this was just a process he had to learn to adapt to—not every player would stay together. The longer you played, the colder people became.
Newbies might wish to band together, but veterans didn’t see it that way.
Don’t be fooled by Chu Mo’s lively act—if he had to choose life or death between himself and a teammate, he’d choose himself.
As for Qi Feng, after nearly three years in the game, he’d faced much colder, harsher situations. There was no reason to blame him for “using and discarding.” In the forest, they’d helped each other again and again: Yan Jiyun saved Qi Feng, Qi Feng saved him, Chu Mo gave up his point box for him—no one owed anyone.
They were all clear: no debts, no obligations.
This was a ruthless game of life and death; any wrong decision could seal your fate.
Yan Jiyun took a deep breath and, like most players, drifted towards the bustling main street of Angel City.
He needed to adapt to the tournament rhythm quickly—learn to push forward alone, and trust no one easily.
Another thing to add to his agenda: assemble his own team.
Night had fallen.
Angel City lived up to its name: angel statues, large and small, adorned every corner.
Aside from the statues, it was a remarkably prosperous city. Aside from the players, all the NPCs wore medieval attire—women in skirts reminiscent of modern fashion, men as gentlemen in three-piece suits.
Shops of every kind lined the streets—eateries, entertainment, every kind of diversion imaginable—yet the setting was clearly medieval, despite the modern amenities.
Now that he was inside, what he needed most was rest. After a full day running in the Demon Forest, he was exhausted.
After entering the main street, Qi Feng’s footsteps quickly vanished—he was a veteran, after all, and vanished even faster than Yan Jiyun expected.
He knew the trick even of changing his walking rhythm—a tactic Yan Jiyun had never even heard of in the real world. Qi Feng’s vigilance had reached impressive heights.
It frustrated Yan Jiyun; winning Qi Feng’s trust in human form would be no easy feat.
As for Chu Mo, he seemed to have stopped somewhere as well. Yan Jiyun didn’t bother trying to track his movements.
He focused instead on the shops; nearly four hundred players were now scattered around the city.
Surprisingly, the busiest spot wasn’t a hotel or inn, but a casino.
A signboard outside declared the rules:
【To All Players】
- First entry requires a 50-point fee; no additional fees for subsequent visits.
- Players with fewer than 50 points may not enter.
- Players may play against NPCs or other players.
- Once inside, you must obey all casino rules; violations result in points deducted.
- Points won in the casino are not taken by the system—they go right to your account.
Friendly reminder: Take a chance, and you might strike it rich. Why not try your luck?
Many players—hesitating outside—were tempted by the “why not?” A few bold ones had already gone in.
Yan Jiyun’s thinking was different—he wouldn’t rush into an unknown casino, rules unknown and risks unmeasured, just to chase a quick gain. He noted the casino’s location and moved on.
The entertainment zone offered more than just gambling: there were massage parlors, foot baths, even spas, with separate services tailored for men and women.
He paused outside a Thai massage place, noting the price board—everything clearly marked, including a bolded warning: “No harassing the masseuses; violators bear all consequences.”
He moved on, spotting a murder-mystery club, an escape room, a haunted house—each posted with its own rules and an entry fee. Complete the game within the time limit, and you could win points.
So the points earned in the forest were for this place?
The game boasted “no time limit,” but now Angel City itself imposed limits. Would earning points here only lead to new pitfalls?
What, in the end, did it take to win the tournament?
With the item mall closed and the inventory grayed out, all living needs now cost points.
His back ached—medicine was needed.
Using his nose, he located a pharmacy in a quiet corner of the main street. All kinds of medicines—internal injuries, external wounds, oral or topical. He chose one for superficial wounds; the price was steep, five hundred points for a tiny bottle.
The middle-aged pharmacist in a lab coat said, “Expensive, sure, but the daily supply is limited—getting one is a good deal.”
Yan Jiyun added, “Give me two more bottles. And some bandages, saline, painkillers—give me a bit of everything.”
The pharmacist praised him, “You’ve got a keen eye. You’ve scored, kid.”
Like a medicine salesman.
Yan Jiyun wasn’t sure about “scoring,” but buying extra couldn’t hurt. The supposed twenty-four hours of rest here would no doubt prove anything but simple.
He quickly noticed: in Angel City, everything cost points. Rest, yes, but earning more would take game participation.
Most players were still in wait-and-see mode, though the bold had begun to play. The cautious and prudent were gathering information, and some were seeking to rest and recover energy before considering their next move.
Teams, naturally, had the advantage; they could act in shifts.
Yan Jiyun was a lone ranger—but had advantages others did not. He could stay nearby and eavesdrop.
But inn and hotel prices in the central area were high.
Inns ran 100–500 points per hour. Hotels: 500–1,000, per hour.
He checked, but it was true—per-hour prices were steep: blatant price gouging.
Inns farther from the main avenue were at least two kilometers away—not ideal for keeping up with current events.
Luxury hotels were close to the game and entertainment districts but prohibitively pricey: a ten-hour stay, and 10,000 points were gone.
He needed only six to eight hours’ rest, and had to save his experience card for earning points—appearing in human form for games. During rest, he’d have to be a cat.
After comparing many places, he chose a mid-range hotel: affordable, meals delivered to the room, not far from downtown, partly obscured by a building in front, dimly lit streets—ideal for slipping out as a cat unnoticed.
Other players didn’t worry as much—those with enough points booked centrally; those with less chose smaller inns. There were options for every budget. The rest options were comfortable enough; whether players could sleep easily was another matter.
Yan Jiyun requested a ground-floor room. Once inside, he checked the windows and asked for food to be sent up quickly.
Before the food arrived, he shifted back to cat form and collapsed on the bed, unwilling to move.
No sooner had he lain down and tried to roll over than he wrenched his injured back.
Hiss—
He jumped to the washbasin to check; a matted patch of fur—he must have bled. Busy and on his feet all day, he hadn’t noticed until now, when, at last, the pain was impossible to ignore.
It hurt so much he couldn’t even stretch his forelegs—any movement pulled at his back. He could only crouch with his legs tucked beneath him.
Ding-dong.
The food arrived.
Grimacing from the pain, he leapt to open the door, then retreated to the bathroom and let the water run.
The sound of water led the server to assume the guest was busy bathing.
“Sir, your food is here. I’ll leave it on the table.”
No reply came, so the puzzled server left, quietly shutting the door.
Yan Jiyun emerged, still in cat form—not using the experience card, as he couldn’t reach his own back to medicate. He jumped to the table, devoured the chicken and fish, and then—reinvigorated—lay down to think.
He listened to the footfalls in the surrounding rooms, but didn’t hear his Cat Dad.
That, at least, was cause for relief—his Cat Dad was wary of everyone and so had a higher chance of survival. But the high alert also meant he couldn’t locate his Cat Dad for now.
He could see, via the pets tab, that both he and Cat Dad were in the same tournament, so presumably Cat Dad could see him as well.
Qi Feng avoided teaming up with strangers while in human form—but how would he feel about a cat?
No—that wouldn’t work. Teaming up would reveal his true identity; better to remain cautious.
Still, asking Cat Dad for some medicine wouldn’t be a problem.
But if he revealed himself and then disappeared again, wouldn’t that disrupt Qi Feng’s focus—make him worry for his safety?
After much thought, Yan Jiyun decided not to seek out Cat Dad, but to bear the pain and deal with his wounds himself.
He used a five-minute experience card, then went to the bathroom to clean the wound. Turning his back to the mirror, he awkwardly applied the medicine—in human form his flexibility rivaled a cat’s; just barely, he managed it.
It was a painful process.
“Hiss—”
“Ow—”
“Hurts, hurts, hurts—”
“I’ve never suffered quite like this.”
“Stupid game. One day, you’ll get what’s coming to you!”
By the time he’d finished, he was sweating all over, but the medicine worked—pain relief, and it helped with sleep.
When the time was up, he returned to cat form and nestled on the bed, listening to the sounds around him.
What was Cat Dad up to?
Qi Feng was doing very little. He’d just noticed that in his pet status bar, it said: “In-game.”
Caramel’s in a dungeon again? But he’d just gotten out!
Qi Feng’s mind was still turning over what Qiu Xi had said about the new owner. Had Caramel been brought into the dungeon again?
With half the players in the grand tournament and half still able to choose regular dungeons, Caramel and his supposed new owner, not picked for the tournament, must still be in the beginner dungeons—was the other party bringing Caramel into the fifth dungeon?
Anxiety mounted—he tossed restlessly, unable to sleep.
It had been over ten days since he’d seen Caramel.
Caramel was clever; he must have a good rapport with his new owner, or else the other party wouldn’t have sneaked him out from Qiu Xi. Qiu Xi, a player too, wouldn’t risk it unless they loved cats.
Maybe they thought Caramel, as an NPC carried out of a dungeon, needed to be with them no matter what?
He tried not to assume the worst.
Sleep evaded him. Qi Feng scrolled through Caramel’s last dungeon notifications.
His system notification tab had expanded from “public chat,” “system,” “team,” and “private” now to include “pet.” When he rested in dungeons, he’d read the feed, imagining Caramel’s life.
It was hard to picture Caramel brawling like a person—he’d imagine him living as a stray. With a new owner, perhaps life wasn’t so bad. Only his first return from a dungeon left him filthy; after that, at least, only the fur showed dust.
Caramel’s last dungeon was “Crazy Zoo”—his longest yet, a full five days inside. Qi Feng still hadn’t seen the aftermath—had Caramel gained or lost weight? Life in the zoo had looked nerve-wracking.
For Qi Feng himself, it might have been no big deal—but those notifications made even his iron constitution send his heart rate soaring above 170.
Consider this one:
【Your pet is happily communicating with the zoo’s large animals.】
Large animals—lions, tigers, leopards, elephants, brown bears, wolves, chimpanzees, kangaroos.
Which ones, exactly?
The system didn’t want info leaked, sure—but did it have to be this vague?
How did Caramel “communicate” with the big animals? Chased, bitten, chased off?
Even skimming these messages shot up his heart rate and blood pressure.
Then the next one:
【Your pet is happily communicating with the vet.】
Caramel hated vets. Why would he communicate—and vets only did one thing to strays: neuter them, to curb stray kittens. Qi Feng understood the reasoning, but please, don’t let them have altered Caramel!
That new owner wasn’t strong at all—how could he let Caramel fall into the hands of a vet?
Qi Feng continued scrolling—close to three hundred messages, yet he read each one, even the repetitive.
He wanted to know how Caramel’s five days had gone.
The first two days were dense and dramatic.
Nerve-wracking, especially these consecutive notifications:
【Your pet suddenly fainted.】
【Your pet was carried off by a large animal.】
【Your pet woke up.】
Gaping time stamps in between—Qi Feng could picture a timid cat carried around by large beasts, traumatized.
Maybe Caramel didn’t have that reaction, but seeing those, Qi Feng nearly froze.
Only his years of discipline in the game, perhaps, held off a heart attack at that moment.
Thankfully, the last three days were easier. Maybe the new owner had found Caramel and taken better care of him—only flaw: Caramel seemed to eat a lot.
【Your pet enjoyed a large breakfast at 8 a.m.】
【Your pet had a snack at 10 a.m.】
【Your pet ate a hearty lunch at noon.】
【Your pet enjoyed a two-hour nap.】
【Your pet had afternoon tea at 3 p.m.】
【Your pet ate a hearty dinner at 6 p.m.】
【Your pet had a special supper at 10 p.m.】
This went on for three days—eating and napping, the routine reassuring. If only these were surveillance logs, not system messages. At this rate, how much weight would Caramel gain? Would he be able to use the escape moves Qi Feng had taught him—if he’d put on too much?
But sleep still refused to come; worry for Caramel gnawed at him. Suddenly, the system announced:
【Congratulations! Your intimacy with your pet has increased by 1.】
【Intimacy: 1/100】
Qi Feng read this announcement three times: ???
His bond with Caramel had increased?