It had been forever since I felt this full. My stomach practically sang as I polished off the huge egg all by myself. I leaned back, licking my paws, feeling gloriously satisfied, and then my eyes drifted to the other egg sitting patiently in the pit.
I stared at it, contemplative, like a philosopher debating the meaning of life. Then I let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"…Forget it."
I buried the second egg again, deciding it was a gift for him. After all, it was thanks to him that I even got the first one into my stomach. Sharing was… technically civilized, right?
I padded closer to the man lying by the fire. His body radiated warmth, and I let out a small, contented huff. Between his heat and the cozy fire, I could actually relax. No more curling up in rock crevices, ears twitching at every suspicious sound, worried about predators or falling debris.
Finally, I could just… sleep.
I yawned again, a big, full-body yawn, and stretched my paws out to shove at the man's shoulder. Nothing. Not even a twitch. Yeah… he wasn't waking up anytime soon.
Since I was apparently the only responsible adult here—despite being a small albino leopard—I decided to do some housekeeping. I padded around the fire, pushing away dry weeds and other flammable nonsense. If he rolled over and set himself on fire while unconscious, that would be deeply inconvenient for both of us.
While cleaning, I noticed something glittering in the grass.
Three dragon scales.
They were blood-stained, obsidian black, with edges sharp enough to make me nervous. I scratched one with my claw. It didn't even leave a mark.
Oh.
This could totally be a knife.
I dragged the scales over and placed them neatly beside the man. Future me would appreciate this. Possibly future me would stab dinner with it.
Satisfied, I added thicker branches from the bird's nest to the fire. These were stubborn, heavy things—hard to burn, but perfect for keeping the fire steady. Once everything looked reasonably safe and cozy, I returned to the man.
Without any hesitation or manners whatsoever, I stepped right onto his arm and climbed up his chest like I owned the place. I shuffled around, adjusted twice, then three times, until I finally wedged myself comfortably under his arm.
Yes. Perfect.
The smell of blood was… unpleasant, and some of it smeared onto my pristine white fur, which I was not thrilled about. But his body heat? Amazing. Worth it.
I curled my tail around myself, rested my head on his arm, and listened to the fire crackle softly. The scent of burned branches lingered in the air, and for the first time since becoming a leopard against my will, the world didn't feel like it was actively trying to kill me.
Just as I was drifting off, I heard a faint crack from his arm.
I opened one eye.
The silver armband around his arm had split open, and something black fell out, hitting the ground and instantly breaking into two pieces. The fragments shimmered with a strange, radiant black luster under the firelight.
…Huh.
Curiosity won. I crawled over and stared at it for a while, then carefully nudged the two broken halves together with my claws.
As a sculptor, I felt personally offended.
I couldn't tell what material it was. It wasn't wood. Not metal. Not stone. And yet—it had clearly been carved.
Carved badly.
I stared at the rough black thing with equal parts curiosity and disgust.
This is the first time in my entire career that I couldn't identify a material. Worse, the craftsmanship was… painful. If I hadn't seen his dragon form several times already, I would have never guessed this misshapen lump was supposed to be based on him.
I placed the broken stone on the man's chest and tilted my head, examining it from multiple angles.
Nope. Still ugly.
The longer I looked at it, the more offended I felt on behalf of art itself.
My sleepiness evaporated completely as I stared at the broken stone resting on his chest. Whatever drowsiness I'd gathered curled up beside a half-dead dragon-man vanished the moment my brain latched onto that thing.
I poked it again. Then frowned harder.
If I remembered correctly… this was familiar. Not the object itself, but the feeling. That irritating itch in my chest, the instinctive urge to judge proportions, texture, intent. The uncontrollable need to ask, 'Who carved this and why were they allowed to?'
Ah.
So this was it.
This was the same feeling that had dragged me, kicking and screaming, into becoming a sculptor in my past life. Or maybe it really was in my blood all along—apparently even death, transmigration, and becoming a starving albino leopard weren't enough to cure me of it.
In my past life, I had been born into a wealthy family. The kind people envied openly and resented quietly. Money, influence, status—I had all of it lined up neatly for me, gift-wrapped at birth.
Except for one tiny problem.
My body was absolute trash.
My health had been terrible for as long as I could remember. I'd faint without warning, my eight-year-old body wracked with pain so intense I couldn't even scream properly. I still remembered the sound of my parents crying every time I collapsed. Adults trying to be brave and failing miserably.
Doctors came and went. Famous ones. Expensive ones. Some flew in just to look important. They all said the same thing in different tone.
Incurable.
Chronic.
Manage expectations.
I'd grown sick—so sick—of those words.
As if that wasn't enough, there were people who wanted me dead. Being the chosen heir to the company put a nice, bright target on my back.
Assassination attempts followed. Some subtle. Some laughably obvious. Poisoned food. Tampered medication. "Accidental" falls down stairs.
In the end, it was my greedy relatives who forced my parents' hand. Not because they didn't love me—quite the opposite. To protect me and deal with the internal rot, they sent me away to live with my grandfather on a private island.
My family's bloodline had always been tied to craftsmanship. For generations, we produced masters—sculptors whose names were carved into history as deeply as their works were carved into stone.
Our ancestral home was practically a museum—except without the annoying velvet ropes or tourists breathing down your neck. Every corner held a masterpiece carved by someone who shared my blood.
They were priceless. Literally priceless. Collectors from all over the world begged to buy them. Governments made offers. Billionaires tried to be subtle about it and failed spectacularly.
My grandfather refused them all.
He allowed exactly one person to photograph the works and broadcast them to the world.
My mother.
She was a famous photographer, the kind whose name appeared in tiny font under massive headlines. She didn't just take pictures—she captured souls. Light, shadow, intention. Grandpa trusted her eyes more than anyone else's. Everyone else could admire from afar.
So when my grandfather finally allowed me inside his private workshop, it felt like being invited into a sacred temple.
I remember it vividly. The smell of stone dust. The quiet scrape of tools. The way sunlight filtered through the high windows and landed gently on unfinished forms. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just worked.
And my hands… my hands itched.
I stood there for a minute. Two. Then somehow, without remembering the exact moment, I was already beside him.
That was the first time I truly touched stone.
At first, it was just something to pass the time. My body couldn't handle sports—running left me dizzy, swimming exhausted me, even walking too fast could send me spiraling. Traveling was out of the question. Reading all day gave me migraines. Everything demanded more strength than I had.
But stone?
Stone never rushed me.
It didn't care if my hands shook. It didn't mock me when I needed to stop and breathe. It simply waited.
I could carve even when my fingers trembled.
My grandfather noticed. Of course he did. He laughed—this deep, warm laugh that echoed off the stone walls—and dragged over a small table, placing it right next to his own. From that day on, he guided me.
Slowly, painfully, obsessively—I learned.
Lines, curves, balance. I learned how to listen to the material instead of forcing it.
Sculpture became the one thing my body couldn't take away from me. The one thing pain couldn't interrupt.
Three months later, I finished my first real work.
A masterpiece.
I didn't know it was one at the time. I just knew it felt… right. Complete. Like the stone had finally exhaled.
My grandfather stared at it for a long time. Too long. I panicked. I thought I had failed.
Then he laughed again—but this time, his eyes were wet.
He personally placed the family heirloom necklace around my neck. It was simple. A modest pendant engraved with our family insignia. No gems. No excessive decoration.
And from that day on… my sickness vanished.
Just like that.
No fainting. No pain. No unbearable pressure crushing my chest. Doctors were summoned but couldn't explain how. Tests were run again and again. My parents cried again, but this time out of disbelief and joy. My grandfather called me a miracle.
For years after that, I lived quietly on the private island with my grandfather. My parents feared our relatives would grow more aggressive once they learned my sickness was gone so they hired teachers. The best ones. I was homeschooled in everything from business to art theory. My parents visited for a week every month.
Only when I turned eighteen did they finally reveal me to the world.
They handed me the company. And I debuted as a sculptor—showing the first masterpiece I had completed since my childhood.
And from that moment on, I was no longer just an heir.
I was a sculptor—famous and scrutinized at the same time.