Who Needs a Relationship When You Have a Cat? Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Ai Qing hadn’t expected Qingshan Xu to lose it in the group chat.

He’d stopped checking the author group while he ate, mindlessly scrolling short videos instead. Only after he’d cleared the table and returned to the bedroom did he notice he’d been dragged into a brand-new group.

Head-count said a little over fifty—all familiar faces from the old gang. He’d signed with Qidian’s Ninth Editorial Group last year and joined their official contracted-authors server imdiately, but gossip and inside dirt never felt safe under the editors’ noses. So the off-the-record author group had been born. Most were Ninth-Group writers who’d crawled up from the gutter together; the revolutionary bond ran deep.

Ai Qing rarely “watered” that chat—when he needed industry news, this smaller group was the only one he bothered to read.

Qingshan Xu, on the other hand, was a serial group-hopper. Ever since his one premium hit he’d joined every authors’ room he could find. After several flops his ego still orbited Mars; he insisted he remained premium-tier.

By contrast, Sugar-Dipped-in-Vinegar—another mber and a 10k-sub author—was refreshingly normal.

[Sugar-Dipped-in-Vinegar]: You can’t talk sense into that guy. Better to spare your eyes.

[Little Ragdoll]: Hahaha, I was enjoying the ltdown, though.

[Sky Cat Loves Rain]: Zhuanjiao’s no saint either—stirs the pot and vanishes, leaving to mop up. Let’s stick to this tiny group from now on.

[Zhuanjiao Huakai]: What happened?

[Sky Cat Loves Rain]: Scroll the old chat.

Curiosity piqued, Ai Qing skimd the backlog. The short version:

Qingshan’s Starry River recomndation slot had been bumped—by Ai Qing—and the man was not taking it well.

Any other author might have swallowed it, but Zhuanjiao’s sugary romance was the very book Qingshan had trashed, predicting it would tank. Now that sa “trash” had trodden on his head and snatched the showcase. If Zhuanjiao had simply out-written him, fine—but Qingshan’s own serial had shed followers after a bungled plot twist, costing him the spot. That was the unkindest cut.

Sugar-Dipped-in-Vinegar, watching the train-wreck, offered a few soothing sentences and so incisive critique—after all, 10k-sub authors read the market. Every point hit ho. Qingshan, ears crimson, fired back wild rebuttals, then escalated to personal attacks, spraying the entire group.

In the end Sky Cat had to mute everyone and quietly spin up this smaller room.

Ai Qing shook his head. Fragile ego much? Then again, that fragility had axed Qingshan’s previous 3k-average premium serial mid-run. Now, just when his new book had crawled to the Starry River threshold—so close to premium redemption—the slot had vanished. Not Ai Qing’s problem: recomndation slots ca from editorial. Write the book, avoid drama; argunts don’t raise royalties. He might as well teach Xiao Yu a few more pinyin words.

With that, he settled in for the evening shift, banking chapters for next week’s launch-day burst.

Around ten he went to bed.

...

3 a.m. Rustling woke him. A month of this routine had tuned his reflexes. Rubbing his eyes, he identified the culprit: Xiao Yu.

She knelt on the floor, head stuck halfway into the litter box, pawing at the sand.

“Xiao Yu, what are you doing?”

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and peered down, massaging his temples.

“Uh...” She jumped, recognized him, sat bolt upright and fumbled for words. “I, here, mm-mm!” She patted her stomach, face scrunching, then pointed at the litter and mid digging. “Go in, bury it.”

Ai Qing: “...You need to poop?”

Crude but accurate.

She nodded hard. He vaulted off the mattress, hauled her up. “No, no—human body, no litter box.”

“Uh?”

He towed her to the bathroom. “I figured you wouldn’t need toilets. Guess I was wrong.” He stroked his chin. “You’ve watched , right? Sit, do your thing, just like in the box.”

She blinked at the porcelain, copied his usual posture, and plonked down.

“Whoa—not directly.” He winced, lifted her again, demonstrated. “Skirt up, underwear off—those little white things, understand?”

Head tilt. He’d never taught her undressing; he’d dodged the topic, unsure how to handle a girl’s clothes. No choice now.

“Hold still. I’ll help.”

Heart hamring, he reached under the hem, slid the white fabric to her knees, then lowered the skirt back into place. Pure cotton ringed her knees; the dress draped over her thighs; warm bathroom light painted the scene like a watercolor.

Pretty—until you rembered pretty girls still stink.

“Call when you’re done. And rember: humans wipe.” He shut the door.