They Mistook my Meow as a Dao

His name was Jing Tu.

A fourth-year inner sect disciple. Modestly talented. Unreasonably ambitious.

He had once tried to reach enlightenment by balancing atop a mountain for seven days without blinking. He had fallen asleep and woken up with frostbite and a raccoon nesting in his sleeve.

He had once meditated in a volcano.

He had once fasted for thirty days, only to eat a grilled bun moments before a visiting elder handed out golden cores.

He was, by all accounts, an idiot.

But a determined one.

And one day, he read a scroll.

"Within the fur of divine beasts lies wisdom; within the whiskers of the Sage Cat rests the truth of the cosmos."

A misquote. From a children's rhyme. Next to a doodle of a smiling cat.

But Jing Tu saw it and understood fate.

He would shave Whiskers.

And ascend.

He prepared.

He forged scissors from blessed silver, tempered in moonlight.

He wrote apology letters to his ancestors.

He paid two raccoons to create a diversion (they promptly ran off with the money).

He consumed a stealth pill and wrapped his feet in enchanted fishskin.

And on the third day of the month, during the sacred midday nap…

He snuck into the moss garden under the Dao Tree.

Whiskers lay curled atop his usual mossy rock.

Fluffy. Glowing faintly with cosmic smugness. Breathing slow, deep, unconcerned.

Jing Tu knelt beside him, trembling.

He reached for the scissors.

Raised them.

Whispered, "Forgive me, great sage."

And snipped.

The moment the blade touched a single strand of fur—

The world paused.

A breeze stopped mid-leaf.

The Dao Tree froze.

A cricket keeled over.

Somewhere, the heavens burped awkwardly.

Whiskers opened one eye.

It glowed blue.

Jing Tu smiled nervously. "I—I come seeking truth—"

Whiskers blinked.

And then it happened.

The scissors vanished.

Jing Tu screamed.

He was launched into the air by an invisible force—spinning, flailing, shoes exploding off—and landed inside the laundry cauldron on the other side of the mountain.

When he emerged, soaked in elder robes and detergent petals, he was bald.

Not just hairless. Eyebrows, beard stubble, nose hairs—gone.

His cultivation robes turned pink.

His storage ring emitted fart noises.

The raccoons watched from a bush and took notes.

Xi-Xi flew in from above. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

"I—" Jing Tu sobbed— "I just wanted to shave the cat—!"

A formal sect meeting was called.

Jing Tu stood weeping in the rain as the Elders debated.

Elder Mei whispered, "Do we exile him?"

Elder Mo growled, "We should turn him into a mop."

Whiskers walked past.

Sat on Jing Tu's head.

And purred.

The grass glowed.

Rain reversed.

Jing Tu began floating, spinning slowly like an apologetic dumpling.

Whiskers leapt off. Walked away.

Elder Mei announced, "The Cat has spoken. He will live."

Jing Tu bowed seven times. "Thank you, Supreme Sage—"

Whiskers flicked his tail.

Jing Tu hiccuped and turned blue for three days.

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Epilogue

Jing Tu never again attempted enlightenment through fur theft.

Instead, he devoted his life to grooming spirit animals and became the first sect-certified Beast Barber.

He now writes scrolls titled "The Art of Respectful Trimming" and gives free haircuts to the mice in the library.

As for Whiskers?

He grew the shaved whisker back in 0.3 seconds, curled up on his rock, and dreamed of grilled fish.