IJEBPSCLB 1

Crunch, crunch.

On the pure white snow where not a single trace of another person could be seen, tiny kitten pawprints were left one after another.

The sensation of cold snow touching the pads of the paws felt strangely unfamiliar.

Still, people had said it had been warm these past few days, so I thought it might be less cold—but it was still chilly enough to make my fur stand on end.

Spring was cold, summer was damp and chilly, autumn was brisk, and winter was even colder.

Come to think of it, it always felt cold. I guess I’ve never really experienced being hot.

Still, having shivered in the cold all the time, I suppose I’d gotten used to it by now.

White breath rose every time I opened my mouth.

“Damn it… why am I even being made to do this…”

A somewhat unusual black-furred kitten (19 years old) was lamenting its life.

“Who said a cat’s life is easy? I’m going to find whoever made that up and argue with them to the edge of the continent.”

Annoyed, I kicked the snow in front of me with my paw.

“I will absolutely argue with them.”

The innocent snow scattered everywhere from my kick.

I can say with certainty that even humans who supposedly lived hard lives in the past had it easier than me. The humans in my memories never had to go to a snowy mountain just to pick flowers.

Right now, I’m wandering a mountain in the dead of winter because of a ridiculous request from that damn Celestine Simmond, who suddenly said she wanted to see flowers and told me to go pick some.

Even though the Simmond estate is full of flowers meant for Celestine.

This is just malicious harassment.

Pure spite. That’s all it is.

“I should be used to this kind of treatment from House Simmond by now, but it still feels unfair.”

Or maybe it’s not unfair—just annoying and infuriating.

The “noble white cat” Simmond family.

The Simmond family is one of the highest-ranking noble houses.

“Because they’re the leaders of the cat-kin.”

In the beastman continent, white cats are symbols of luck, while black cats are symbols of misfortune.

Every member of House Simmond was born a white cat, which made their house a symbol of fortune itself.

“The Simmonds of Luck.”

That’s what people called them.

And they were extremely proud of it.

Well, they had every reason to be.

It proved they were descendants of Arithea, a distant, untouchable ancestor of the beastmen.

But one day, in a family that had only ever produced white cats for generations, a black cat was born.

And that black cat was me—a complete anomaly.

“Something like that thing carries cursed energy! It will ruin our family!”

“Why is that jinx still alive?”

“Don’t call her your sister. Don’t say that name. You’ll get contaminated.”

As expected, the noble white cats hated me.

No—it went beyond hatred. They despised my very existence. I was a stain on their family.

But I also had questions of my own.

Why was a small black cat born among all those noble white cats?

Was I even really part of House Simmond?

They tormented me endlessly while thoroughly erasing my existence, as if I shouldn’t exist in this world at all.

As if they feared something.

And so, after the age of six, I became nothing more than their outlet for frustration—never once properly called by my family name, never even hearing my real name spoken.

My name? I don’t know it.

Everyone only called me “the jinx.”

I just hoped that “jinx” wasn’t my real name.

Because if it were, that would be truly pathetic.

The so-called family spent all their time tormenting me. It started with small errands—fetching water, putting on shoes, polishing shoes—but it gradually escalated.

When those angelic white-haired people spoke like devils, their hair looked almost cruel.

If I cleaned their shoes, they would throw them away in front of everyone, saying they were contaminated with bad energy.

If I brought drinks, they would pour them over my head in front of everyone.

If I brought flowers from the snowy mountain, struggling through winter, they would declare them cursed and trample or burn them in front of everyone.

Truly remarkable people, aren’t they?

“Trash that isn’t even worth incinerating.”

At nine, when I finally managed to take human form later than others, I once tried to resist out of anger at Celestine’s absurd demands.

“Hmm, I feel like seeing flowers. Go pick some.”

“Here.”

“Where are the flowers?”

“Right here.”

SLAP!

In front of everyone, I was slapped hard across the face.

“And Anne, throw away those gloves.”

From that day, Lady Simmond and Celestine began beating me whenever they pleased.

Yes, I admit my resistance was abnormal.

But I didn’t even hit Celestine back—wasn’t it a bit much for something that wasn’t even real defiance?

As time passed, the punishments grew worse, until I eventually gave up resisting and chose to live quietly.

And as if waiting for that, they immediately began ordering me around with even more ridiculous demands.

Thinking about it again, they really were something else.

Still, I was able to endure.

No matter how I was hurt, trampled emotionally, or treated as if I didn’t exist, I endured.

…Until the day the family head said something unexpected.

“I will try to remove that jinx’s misfortune.”

From that moment, everyone praised his mercy.

To not only accept a jinx into the household but even remove its misfortune—how noble!

It was ironic, praising someone for accepting the child they themselves produced.

The servants and maids kicked me and laughed.

“Be grateful. You’re lucky you’re even allowed to stay here under His Grace’s mercy.”

“If it were me, I would’ve thrown you out long ago.”

“Exactly. Just being near you feels unpleasant. You bring misfortune.”

“But His Grace said he will remove your bad luck.”

“Even if your misfortune is gone, don’t forget what you are. You are still filth that brings others ruin.”

“If this is the House of Luck Simmond, it’s fine that you exist. Otherwise, you’d already be dead because of your curse.”

“That’s your destined fate.”

No one stopped them.

If anything, they encouraged it.

My existence was a disgrace to House Simmond, and while I was tormented inside, the outside world stayed silent.

That’s why no matter what was done to me, it never leaked beyond these walls.

Because I was something that should not exist.

Even the butler avoided me as if my presence itself was dirty.

And so, as the lady and Celestine themselves openly abused me in front of everyone, there was no one to stop the servants either.

People who saw me suffering simply looked away, as if I didn’t exist.

And naturally, the torment only grew worse.

But perhaps because of the family head’s order, Lady Simmond and Celestine stopped coming to physically beat me after he said he would remove my misfortune.

Instead, they gave me degrading looks and ordered strange errands.

But what came next was a different kind of hell.

An unimaginable hell.

For beastmen, it was the kind of pain that would break the mind.

Endless agony crushed my consciousness, making normal life impossible.

Everything before—Celestine, Lady Simmond, even the servants’ bullying—felt like child’s play.

My body always screamed under the unbearable pain.

“…Doctor…”

“Still… partial success…”

And every time, I would faint after hearing those words.

When they were about to come again, I would run desperately through the mansion, my wounds half-healed, trying not to experience that pain again.

It was survival.

Because of that desperate movement, my stitched wounds would often reopen.

But in the end, I was always caught and dragged to that place—whether it was an infirmary or a laboratory, I never knew.

Who said giving up makes things easier?

Yes. Giving up was easier.

My resistance was meaningless, and the small seed of helplessness in my heart had grown until it nearly devoured me.

After I stopped running away, I could no longer move from that torn, ruined body like a broken box.

They said sleeping reduced the pain, so I lay still and tried to fall asleep early before experiments began.

Even then, someone still came every day to check whether I was alive or dead. Others often came to record notes about my condition.

I didn’t understand why they bothered. I could barely move.

And my condition never changed.

I always slept in that box. When I opened my eyes, I was covered in blood and unable to move.

But it hurt less than trying to run, having my stitched wounds tear open again and bleeding everywhere.

And then—

“Tch. That one is a failure.”

With those words and a disgusted gaze, my hell ended.

I think I even saw fear hidden in their eyes.

Of course, surveillance continued.

But I was no longer dragged to that place filled with scalpels, syringes, knives, and strange drugs.

After the final experiment, I lay in that box for days without moving.

It hurt terribly.

Something inside my body kept tearing through me, stabbing everywhere.

My body, which once could take human form, was now beyond recovery.

It felt like my heart was frozen solid, my entire body chilled as if it would break into ice, then burned as if scorched by fire.

A contradictory, extreme pain.

Every breath was agony.

And in that unbearable pain, I lost consciousness.

That was when it happened.

“…I’m screwed.”

The moment I remembered my past life.

“My life…”