The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 217

After Chu Tingwu reached the marked point, the hearts of her audience finally settled back into their chests. She waved from a distance at the waiting staff but then veered off to the side, gliding to a slow stop in front of an untouched stretch of snow.

Then, Chu Tingwu turned and promptly lay back, falling onto the snow with her face to the sky.

This chapter is updat𝓮d by freēnovelkiss.com.

Above her should have been a gently sloping, sunlit incline. Behind her stretched a pine forest, its shade covering half the sky. At the edge of her vision, layered white clouds met the snow-capped peaks, blending heaven and earth into nearly the same hue.

Chu Tingwu closed her eyes but didn’t remove her glasses, so the audience could still see this almost motionless scene.

It was as if they, too, were lying in the snow, able to hear the faintest sound of Chu Tingwu’s breathing.

After a long while, someone approached, their steps crunching through the snow with each stride. Further away, people chatted, adjusted equipment, and spoke while sheltering from the wind—but none of it felt noisy.

Some viewers closed their eyes in shared serenity, while others kept theirs open, watching through the livestream as a thoroughly bundled-up figure, only a strand of blond hair peeking out from under their hat, crouched beside Chu Tingwu and waved a hand in front of her face.

[...]

The audience didn’t know whether the streamer’s eyes were open or not, but that wave? Yeah, that was definitely meant for *them.*

The blond figure seemed to realize this, glanced at the phone screen, then shifted slightly out of frame before extending a hand—

["With Master Chu’s skills, the odds of her doing a backflip and sweeping someone’s legs are way higher than her needing help to stand up, right?"]

["Chu Miao’s very polite—she wouldn’t just randomly sweep someone’s legs!"]

Chu Tingwu: “Pfft.”

Just ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‍then, Zhou Qiang walked over, and Chu Tingwu quietly bid her fans goodbye, shutting down the stream before they could flood the chat with question marks.

These days, her account felt more like a public journal than a livestream channel. Her audience was finding it harder and harder to catch her online, sometimes even whispering prayers for her to join more competitions—at least then, if they couldn’t catch her broadcasts, they could still see her on TV.

Then Chu Tingwu took Shao Lingwu’s hand and let him pull her up from the snow.

Zhou Qiang pointed. “They’re discussing night skiing over there… oh, you heard.”

A gathering of extreme sports athletes was never going to be a one-and-done affair. They’d planned a two-to-three-month challenge—or rather, a game—for themselves. Night skiing was just one part of it. Beyond that, they’d also mentioned a snow cave, a unique ice layer in Australia, and something even more thrilling: a high-altitude descent with an even steeper drop…

But Chu Tingwu only had about a day left to rest before she’d have to rush off to another competition.

This trip was just to complete the prerequisites for the Antarctic Cup.

Zhou Qiang could tell she probably wouldn’t be joining the rest of their plans, so she helped her out of her gear. Once they regrouped at the base camp, they could say their goodbyes.

Taking off the skis wasn’t hard, but even knowing Chu Tingwu’s stamina was nothing to scoff at, her friends still went out of their way to save her energy, letting her rest as much as possible.

Shao Lingwu crouched to help with her other ski, but just as he was about to stand, Chu Tingwu tilted her head and pressed a hand on his shoulder.

He’d taken off his hat earlier because of the heat, and now his blond hair gleamed strikingly under the light.

Shao Lingwu looked up, puzzled.

Chu Tingwu seemed to consider something, then—in slow motion—reached out with her other hand and placed it on his opposite shoulder.

Zhou Qiang: “…” What are you two doing?

Shao Lingwu: “Oh!”

By the time Chu Tingwu withdrew her hands, Shao Lingwu had pivoted while still crouching, and the two seamlessly executed a piggyback maneuver right in front of Zhou Qiang.

Even though Chu Tingwu looked perfectly capable of climbing back up the mountain on her own.

Zhou Qiang silently gathered her friend’s equipment and watched as the two walked off in their new arrangement.

Shao Lingwu moved at a leisurely pace, while Chu Tingwu adjusted her position on his back, propping herself up with her palms on his shoulders and peering around like… a cat?

Wait.

She *was* one, wasn’t she?

Zhou Qiang: But how did these two just pull off this perfectly synchronized move without *any* communication…?

Her expression gradually sharpened, her gaze shifting to the space over Shao Lingwu’s shoulder. Her face remained neutral, but a hint of killing intent flickered through.

Shao Lingwu: “…”

Carrying someone while bundled up *was* a bit strenuous, but why did he suddenly feel a chill despite sweating?

Back at the hotel, Shao Lingwu immediately went searching for cold medicine, determined to take preventive measures. Zhou Qiang busied herself organizing luggage, doing a quick tidy-up before stepping out to find Chu Tingwu perched on the back of the sofa, legs crossed, sitting a good head taller than anyone who’d use it normally.

After a moment’s thought, Zhou Qiang poked her off.

Chu Tingwu: “Meow meow meow!”

A cat’s wariness and a cat’s laziness could coexist in the same feline at any given time. So, no matter how indignant Chu Kitten was, she just muttered a few cat-like complaints before kneeling properly on the couch, watching as Zhou Qiang, like a manager, laid out her upcoming schedule.

Three competitions, two challenges. Chu Tingwu had already completed 2/5. One of the remaining competitions was at the end of September—tight on time—while the other was in November, even more urgent because failure wasn’t an option.

That made the Texas Snow Endurance Race in between all the more critical.

Though called a “Texas” race, the course actually spanned three states. Competitors had only their skiing gear to traverse the sprawling mountain ranges—

This race had been running for twenty-three years, longer than Chu Tingwu had been alive. Before the Antarctic Cup burst onto the scene, everyone had considered it the most time-consuming skiing competition in existence.

After all, skiing required snow, and artificial snow couldn’t cover such vast distances—so the length of the race depended entirely on the terrain of those three states.

It wasn’t until 23 years later that someone realized: *Antarctica* was the true paradise for long-distance skiing enthusiasts.

Though “long-distance skiing” as a concept was already niche enough that most people wouldn’t even think to look into it.

Given the Antarctic Cup’s “route,” participants either had to prove they’d completed over 24 hours of unaided skiing (or with only supplies provided), or they had to finish the Texas Snow Endurance Race.

And the Texas race had its own prerequisites—ones Chu Tingwu technically couldn’t meet in time. But perhaps because the Antarctic Cup had positioned it as an official qualifier, the organizers decided to reciprocate. After reviewing her past footage and hearing of her situation, they agreed to grant her a spot.

Chu Tingwu: "The Texas Endurance Race typically has no more than forty participants each year, but due to the Antarctic Cup, the number has risen slightly this time—reaching 42... I have to traverse three states on skis, with supplies dropped along the way. I can’t deviate significantly from the designated route, and communication with other competitors is forbidden."

Even if they cross paths, the most they can exchange are simple gestures—no words allowed.

The race was originally founded by someone who completed the challenge solo, later turning it into a public event. After an accident, the founder formalized it into an organized competition—

And the "no communication" rule exists because confronting and overcoming loneliness is part of the challenge.

Cameras are stationed along the route, and since the event is now an annual fixture, the three states support it as a regular spectacle. Spectators occasionally appear along the way, making cheating impossible.

The organizers schedule tight rest periods with strict regulations. After Shao Lingwu arrived, the three of them huddled together to study the rest stops along the route. Unlike a personal challenge, this long-haul race would test their endurance and mental stamina.

Shao Lingwu and Zhou Qiang exchanged a glance, then turned to Chu Tingwu.

She was curled up in a corner of the sofa, idly twirling her hair, her posture almost boneless. But when room service arrived, she glanced at the cart, suddenly reached under the coffee table, and effortlessly slid it aside—preventing the server from bumping into it as they backed through the door.

They shouldn’t worry about her lacking endurance... They should worry about her deciding to hunt a bear mid-race!

Chu Tingwu: "No."

Her expression turned serious. "Endurance and skill aren’t the same... The Texas Endurance Race usually takes two and a half days. I don’t know if I’ll get bored halfway."

No one can stay focused indefinitely, even doing something they love. If she truly didn’t feel loneliness, why would she livestream?

Chu Tingwu considered her only advantage: even if she couldn’t talk to others, she still had her system.

If she called out, Phoenix would always answer—but doing so would be cheating, even if the organizers never found out.

She shook her head faintly. Shao Lingwu spoke up: "What about a pacer? Like in marathons."

Even without words, without hearing the cheers of spectators, just having another figure nearby would feel like companionship.

But the Antarctic had no one. The Antarctic Cup’s rules were similar, but there weren’t even birds—just pure, desolate emptiness.

The terrain was more treacherous, and exhaustion doubled the risk of accidents. During her dream training sessions, Chu Tingwu had focused mostly on navigating the path ahead, with the system chatting alongside her.

Other athletes had arrived at the hotel. Rex, hearing Chu Tingwu was leaving, came to say goodbye. Noticing the trio discussing the issue, he offered advice:

"Texas Endurance Race, huh... Not sure if my method will help, but—"

"Hm?"

"I ignore where everyone else is. Paying attention just slows me down! When I ski, I sing in my head."

Others had their own tricks—crafting stories in their minds, observing the surroundings, setting mini-goals to break up the long trek, or talking to that inner "voice."

Rex, ever enthusiastic, insisted on teaching Chu Tingwu a folk song from his hometown... His technique was lacking, but his energy made up for it.

After he left, the three of them sat in silence—

"So quiet..."

"Maybe skiing’s like this. Embracing the stillness could be nice?"

"I think the song’s original melody isn’t bad. Someone else singing it would sound decent—let me check online—"

Chu Tingwu and Zhou Qiang flanked Shao Lingwu, hoisted him up, and unceremoniously tossed him out the door.

*Click.* The door shut behind him.