"Alright," James rumbled softly. "From now on, your name is Aurora," he said while looking at her.
But the clueless Aurora only looked back at him with confused eyes, tilting her head slightly.
James just shook his head.
The night passed.
The sun rose as it always did, and James slept until his body decided it was done resting. He let out a long, bone-cracking yawn and stretched his stiff limbs before padding out of the cave.
He went straight to the pond for a drink. The Giant Beaver was already there, methodically stripping bark from a willow branch, but the clearing felt empty. Aurora was nowhere to be seen.
"So, she decided to head out after all", James thought. He wasn't surprised. He had given her a choice the night before: stay and join his odd little troop, or find her own path. It seemed she had chosen the latter.
"SQUEAK! SQUEAK!"
Before James could turn back toward the forest, the beaver abandoned its breakfast and waddled over, chirping with frantic urgency. It began to lead him away from the water, heading toward the deeper timber.
James followed, curious. He soon picked up the familiar, paw prints in the soft earth. The beaver wasn't just wandering around it was tracking her.
A few hundred yards into the thick forest, the beaver stopped and hunkered down behind a fern. James followed suit, peering through the brush.
In a small clearing ahead, a Flat-headed Peccary was rooting through the leaf litter. These prehistoric pigs were everywhere—from the rainforests to these high mountain slopes. They were sturdy, aggressive, and armed with sharp, vertical tusks that could open a predator's belly in seconds.
Nearby, the tall grass was swaying in a way that wasn't caused by the wind.
James stayed silent, watching the stalk unfold. The predator in the grass eventually reached the edge of the cover. There were twenty meters of open ground between her and the peccary. No more room for stealth.
Suddenly, a white blur erupted from the brush. Aurora launched herself forward with everything she had.
The peccary squealed in alarm, its hooves churning the dirt as it bolted. James watched the chase with a critical eye. This was a prime, adult peccary—nearly the same mass as Aurora herself. For a sub-adult cat, this was a high-risk gamble.
Aurora's burst of speed was impressive. Within seconds, she was flanking the pig. She didn't have the Power Lifter build James had developed through the system; she relied on pure feline athleticism.
She lunged, her paws slamming into the peccary's hindquarters. The impact sent both animals tumbling into the dirt in a chaotic mess of white fur and gray bristles.
They rolled, and Aurora scrambled for the throat. She managed to sink her teeth into the peccary's neck, but she lacked the core strength to pin the animal instantly. The peccary was a solid mass of muscle and panic. It heaved upward, slamming Aurora into the ground.
She didn't let go.
Aurora twisted her body, wrapping her powerful forelimbs around the Peccary's neck in a desperate choke-hold, falling onto her back to use her weight as an anchor. This was the most dangerous position for a cat—her belly was exposed, and the peccary began to frantically stamp its sharp hooves into her ribs.
James frowned, his claws sliding out instinctively. One bad kick and she's got a ruptured lung or a broken rib. In the wild, that's a slow death sentence.
He hesitated. He could end this in two seconds. But she had made her choice to hunt. If he stepped in now, he was treating her like a cub, not a partner.
Minutes passed. The clearing was a symphony of choked squeals and the thud of hooves against flesh. Finally, the peccary's struggles began to weaken. The lack of oxygen was doing its work. The frantic kicking turned into sporadic twitches.
Aurora didn't relax until the pig went completely limp, its legs stiffening one last time before falling still.
She released her grip, her muzzle stained crimson. She collapsed next to the carcass, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She had pushed herself to the absolute limit of her stamina to secure this kill.
After a long rest, Aurora struggled to her feet. She didn't start eating. Instead, she gripped the heavy peccary by the neck and began the grueling task of dragging it back toward the pond.
James watched from the shadows, a realization dawning on him.
She wasn't leaving. She was just out for food.
She wanted to prove her worth. She didn't want to just eat his charity fish or sloth leftovers; she wanted to bring something to the table. James felt a strange sense of respect. He had misjudged her.
He didn't make a sound as he slipped away, returning to the pond before she could arrive. He wanted her to have her moment of triumph.