(Point of View: Lexo)
So there we were—two kids stuck in this never-ending nightmare labyrinth, me panting, drenched in sweat, my brain buzzing from every "what the hell is happening now?" moment. And facing off across a giant board game.
Netamino. Pietro's favorite. I recognized it instantly, even at this absurd scale—stone pieces detailed down to the King's ostentatious crown, the Queen's calculating gaze, the radiance of the White Mage and the brooding Black Mage in opposite corners, the General's martial stance, and those two Princes—small but brimming with latent power. Seven pieces a side, because of course this universe worships the number seven.
I'd spent countless afternoons in Serena Village watching Pietro painstakingly teach me the rules while I flailed my pieces around like a headless chicken. "The King is your primary objective," he'd say, adjusting his glasses, "but he moves slowly. The Queen combines Mage and General. Mages move diagonally—flank control—Generals straight ahead. Princes start like Kings, and if they reach the last row, they can promote to Queen or General. Strategy, not brute force!"
I sighed. I'd never beaten Pietro, and Uncle Valerius's games were even more humiliating—his traps so subtle I'd walk right into them every time. Losing to him was its own cosmic lesson in humility.
And now, here I was, supposed to play a colossal Netamino match against this temporal doppelgänger—Blue, as I'd come to think of him—as the grand finale of this interdimensional freak show? The absurdity was so rich I could almost taste it. Spicy sand mixed with bitter disappointment.
My portable kitty supervisor floated at my shoulder, projecting the house rules:
- Announce your move to the Assigned Feline Supervisor (AFS).
- AFS will execute it.
- Touching the pieces yourself is forbidden.
- No Chronos peek at the future.
- And absolutely no dramatic yawning—okay, I invented that last one, but it should be.
I eyed Blue across the board. He looked as exasperated as I felt—like someone had promised him a dragon boss fight and handed him finger painting instead.
"Seriously?" I called out. "Netamino? After all that?"
Blue shrugged, voice dry. "The Cat's idea of a grand finale. He has a… peculiar sense of humor."
"'Peculiar' is putting it mildly," I grumbled. "Actively insulting, even."
Blue's kitty meowed: his turn. He studied the board, then issued his move with weary precision:
"Prince to D3."
His feline drifted over the Prince, wrapped it in a soft temporal shimmer, and slid it forward two squares—utterly graceful and utterly ridiculous.
My turn. I glanced at the board, weighing my options. Go aggressive like Pietro always advised? Or solid defense like Uncle Valerius? Or lean into the absurdity?
"Prince to E6," I thought, mirroring his opening.
My kitty obliged, shifting my Prince across the mirrored path.
Blue raised an eyebrow under his hood. "Playing it safe, Lexo?"
I smirked. "Playing 'I want to go home.' White Mage to C4."
"General to F3," he countered almost immediately.
Thus began the most uninspired game of Netamino ever witnessed in a crystalline cave. We moved pieces with minimal passion, trading quips about the Cat's punishing tests, the sand's questionable texture, and Tick-Tock's incessant sarcasm. Somehow, commiserating made this madhouse feel a bit more bearable.
After twenty moves of soul-numbing parity—no captures, no check, no real strategy—our armies stood in a delicate standoff.
"Draw?" I offered.
Blue nodded. "Draw by mutual boredom and contempt for the system."
We signaled our agreements to the feline supervisors. The two kitties exchanged the world's most disdainful telepathic conversation before relaying the verdict.
Then the real Smiling Cat's voice boomed through my skull, dripping with offended outrage:
"A DRAW?! You dare declare a tie in my grand finale? This isn't a philosophy tea party—it's a test of survival and cunning! You're supposed to crush each other's hopes, not swap compliments about my sense of humor!"
I felt his displeasure ripple the air. His smile inverted into something grotesque.
"Terribly disappointing! However…" His tone shifted, becoming sly and calculating. "I suppose it proves… collaborative intelligence. Or shared laziness. Either way, you pass by technicality and sheer lack of enthusiasm. Congratulations!"
As if on cue, the floor dissolved beneath the board, and a pastel vortex yawned open.
"Don't get comfortable!" The Cat's final roar chased us into the swirl. "The best is yet to come—and I will demand more enthusiasm next round!"
I plunged through cosmic cotton candy once more, Blue somewhere beside me in the multicolored void. I only had one thought: this cat desperately needs a hobby. And I desperately need a cosmic bathroom.