Arata opened his eyes.
The room was dark. The candles had burned out hours ago. Somewhere outside, a night bird called into the silence.
He lay still for a moment, hoping sleep would come back and drag him under. It didn't. His mind was too awake, too full of blue spheres and white spheres and the strange, hungry power coiled inside him.
Great, he thought. Insomnia in a ten-year-old body. Some things never change.
He sat up.
The futon rustled beneath him. Across the room, near the window, a small basket sat on the floor—the bed his maid had prepared for the cat. And in that basket, something moved.
The cat was awake.
It sat hunched over a small wooden bowl, lapping up what looked like leftover fish and milk. Its tail flicked back and forth contentedly. Every few seconds, it paused to lick its whiskers, then dove back in.
Arata stared at it.
This cat passed out from eating too much. It woke up. And the first thing it did was eat again.
He shook his head slowly. A blank expression settled on his face—the kind of look a tired parent gives a child who has done something ridiculous but also kind of endearing.
"You," Arata said quietly, "are a glutton."
The cat ignored him. It was busy licking the bowl clean.
Arata watched for another moment, then felt the corner of his mouth twitch. A smile crept onto his face despite himself.
"Since you're a little glutton," he said, "I'll name you Munchkin."
The cat—Munchkin—finished its meal, sat back, and began washing its face with one paw. It did not acknowledge the name. It did not acknowledge Arata. It simply existed, round and content, in its own small world.
Living the life, Arata thought. No worries. No wars. Just food and sleep.
He wished he could relate.
He pushed the blankets aside and sat cross-legged on the futon. The night was quiet. No guards patrolled this wing at this hour. No servants came to check on him.
It was time to experiment.
He raised his right hand. Palm up. Fingers slightly curled.
And with a thought, he called forth the white sphere—the copy of the cat.
It materialized above his palm, glowing softly, pulsing like a tiny heart. Inside that sphere was everything Munchkin was. Its body. Its instincts. Its little cat consciousness, frozen and waiting.
Arata stared at it for a long moment.
I still don't know what to do with you, he admitted to himself. But I have other powers. And one of them is Absolute Owner.
The description had been clear. Anything created through The Forge was his. He could command it. Vanish it. Delete it permanently. He was the sole authority over everything his power produced.
That meant he could create things. And those things would obey him.
An idea stirred in the back of his mind.
He raised his left hand. Then he looked down at the floor—at his own shadow, cast by the faint moonlight filtering through the window.
Copy.
He focused on the shadow. Not the light creating it, but the shadow itself—the dark shape that followed him everywhere, attached to his feet, his constant companion.
The power stirred. A warmth bloomed in his palm.
And then, another sphere appeared. This one was different from the cat's copy. Darker. Almost black, with faint silver threads swirling inside it. It felt cold to the touch, like the memory of a winter night.
A copy of his shadow.
Arata held the two spheres—one white, one black—in his open palms. They floated there, weightless, waiting.
He looked at the white sphere. Then at the black sphere.
Fusion.
He brought his hands together. The spheres touched.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the power of fusion burst outward from his core—not painfully, but with a gentle pressure, like a held breath finally released. Soft light surged between his fingers. The spheres did not resist. They melted into each other, swirling, merging, becoming something new.
The light dimmed.
And something jumped out of his grasp.
Arata stumbled back, heart lurching. A silhouette landed on the floor in front of him—small, maybe his height or a little shorter—and immediately knelt. Head bowed. Hands folded neatly in front of its knees.
Then a voice spoke. Feminine. Sweet. Calm.
"Greetings, Master."
Arata stared.
It was a cat-person.
Not a full cat like Munchkin. Not a human wearing cat ears. It was somewhere in between—a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen in appearance, with short black hair and bright golden eyes. Two cat ears poked up from her head, twitching slightly. A long black tail curled behind her. Her skin was pale, almost the color of moonlight. She wore a simple dark kimono that seemed to shift and ripple like liquid shadow.
She was kneeling. Waiting. Completely still.
"What the hell," Arata whispered.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again.
She was still there.
"Master," the cat-person said again, her voice soft and patient. "Are you unwell?"
"I—no. I'm fine." Arata swallowed. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to breathe. "I'm just… surprised. Stand up. Please."
She rose gracefully. She was about his height—maybe a hair shorter—and moved with a fluid, silent grace that reminded him of the cats he'd seen in the palace gardens. Her golden eyes watched him with calm curiosity.
Arata collected himself. He had created her. He knew that. But knowing and seeing were two different things.
"How do you feel?" he asked. "Are you… aware? Do you have thoughts? Feelings?"
The cat-person tilted her head slightly, considering the question. "I feel… present. I know that I am. I know that you created me. I know that I am yours to command." She paused, then added, "I also feel curiosity. About you. About this room. About the small furry creature in the basket."
She glanced at Munchkin, who had fallen back asleep, completely oblivious.
Arata let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. She had awareness. She wasn't just a puppet—she could think, observe, even feel curiosity.
The copy of the cat had consciousness, he realized. A sleeping, unconscious consciousness. And when I fused it with the shadow… that consciousness woke up.
He looked at her more closely. Her features were delicate, almost doll-like. Her black kimono seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it.
"One more question," Arata said, feeling a little awkward. "Your… gender. You're female?"
She nodded. "Yes, Master."
Right, Arata thought. The original cat was female. That's why the creation came out female.
He shook his head, pushing aside any inappropriate thoughts. She was a creation. A tool. A companion, maybe. Nothing more.
"You need a name," he said.
"I do not have one," she agreed.
Arata thought for a moment. Something that matched her appearance—dark, shadowy, graceful. Something that felt right.
"How about Yamiko?" he said. "Does that work for you?"
The cat-person—Yamiko—bowed her head. "Yamiko. Yes, Master. I like it."
Arata smiled. It was a small, tired smile, but genuine. "Good. Now, Yamiko… we have a problem."
She looked up, golden eyes attentive.
"I can't exactly explain you to the servants. Or my father. Or anyone else in this palace." He gestured vaguely at her. "You're a cat-person. That's not exactly normal around here."
Yamiko's expression didn't change. "There is no need to worry, Master."
Before Arata could ask what she meant, she dissolved.
Not exploded. Not vanished. She dissolved—her body turning into black ink-like liquid that flowed down her legs and pooled on the floor. The pool spread, flattened, and then crept across the wooden boards like a living thing.
It slid toward Arata's feet.
He tensed, but didn't move.
The shadow reached his own shadow—the one cast by the moonlight—and merged with it. Seamlessly. Silently. In a heartbeat, Yamiko was gone.
Arata looked down at his own shadow. It looked normal. Ordinary. No sign of the cat-person hiding inside it.
"Yamiko?" he whispered.
Her voice came from nowhere and everywhere, soft as a breath. "I am here, Master. I can hide within your shadow. No one will see me unless you command otherwise."
Arata let out a long, slow breath.
That's useful. Really useful.
"Come out," he said.
The shadow rippled. Yamiko rose from it like a swimmer surfacing from dark water—first her head, then her shoulders, then her whole body. She knelt in front of him again, perfectly composed.
Arata nodded slowly. "Can you hide in other shadows? Not just mine?"
"Yes, Master."
He glanced at Munchkin, still sleeping in her basket. "Try the cat's shadow."
Yamiko looked at the basket. Her form dissolved again, flowing across the floor as black liquid, and slipped under the basket. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Munchkin's shadow—a small, round blotch on the floor—seemed to deepen slightly.
"Success," Yamiko's voice came from the shadow.
"Good," Arata said. "Now try something else. That table. That scroll. The wall."
One by one, Yamiko moved through the shadows of the room. The table. The scroll rack. The wooden screen in the corner. Every shadow accepted her. She flowed from one to the next like water finding its level.
Finally, she returned to Arata's shadow and emerged.
"All shadows accept me," she reported. "I have not yet tried a living being's shadow while they are awake. That will require testing tomorrow."
Arata filed that information away. Then another question occurred to him.
"Yamiko, do you have chakra?"
A pause. Her golden eyes flickered.
"No, Master. I do not."
Arata had expected that. He had fused a cat and a shadow—neither of which had chakra naturally. But he had a solution.
He reached inside himself—into that infinite storage—and pulled out one of the copies of his own chakra. The blue-white sphere floated in his palm.
"Hold still," he said.
He pressed the sphere against Yamiko's chest. She didn't flinch.
Fusion.
The sphere sank into her like water into sand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Yamiko's eyes widened. Her ears twitched. Her tail bristled.
Chakra flooded through her—the same volume, the same quantity as Arata's own. She gasped softly, then steadied herself.
"I have chakra now," she said, wonder coloring her voice.
"You do," Arata agreed. "Same as mine. Which means you can learn jutsu."
He sat back, thinking. Yamiko was a creature of shadow. She could hide in shadows, move through them, become one with them. That wasn't just a skill—it felt like an inherent part of her. A bloodline. A kekkei genkai.
Shadow-based abilities, he thought. Like the Nara clan.
The Nara clan of Konoha was famous for their Shadow Imitation Technique—the ability to merge their shadow with an opponent's and control their movements. It was a rare, difficult, and incredibly useful power.
And Yamiko might be able to learn it.
If I can get my hands on Nara clan techniques, Arata thought, Yamiko could become a nightmare on the battlefield. An assassin hidden in shadows. A spy who can't be caught.
He filed that thought away for later. Stealing clan secrets from Konoha was not a tomorrow problem. It was a "maybe in a few years if I'm still alive" problem.
But it was a goal.
"You did well tonight, Yamiko," Arata said. "Return to my shadow. Rest. Tomorrow, we'll test more."
Yamiko bowed. "As you command, Master."
She dissolved into ink and flowed into his shadow. The room fell silent again.
Arata looked at Munchkin. The cat had rolled onto her back, paws in the air, completely dead to the world.
"Living the life," Arata muttered again.
He lay back on the futon and stared at the ceiling cranes. His mind was already spinning ahead—plans forming, connections building. Yamiko could gather information. She could move through shadows unseen. She could listen to the council's meetings, read the Daimyo's private letters, slip into rooms where no one would ever know she was there.
I need to know what's happening, he thought. The council is hiding something. My father—the original's father—is under pressure. I can feel it. If I'm going to survive the coming war, I need information.
He closed his eyes.
The First War ended fifteen years ago. The Second War is coming. And I'm a ten-year-old prince with a shadow cat and a cheat ability I barely understand.
He sighed.
One step at a time.
Sleep came for him finally, pulling him down into darkness. His shadow lay still beneath him silently.
Munchkin stretch softly in her basket.
The night passed.