The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 219

The Texas Endurance Race has always garnered significant attention within its niche circle.

Though the official account doesn’t boast a massive following, it has diligently livestreamed the event for the past decade—albeit primarily through text updates and fragmented video clips. After all, the race’s lengthy format poses a challenge for full coverage: participants set off simultaneously but soon diverge in pace and route, testing even the most skilled commentators.

In recent years, however, the organizers have pushed for full-process livestreaming, aiming to edit the footage into digestible programs. Better promotion, they believe, could extend the sport’s lifespan, drawing more competitors through increased visibility.

Their efforts yielded modest online releases in the past two years, which failed to gain traction—perhaps due to sparse material or uneven editing.

This year, with fresh sponsorship secured, the organizers turned their gaze eastward, toward untapped markets.

Selling shoes where few wear them is undeniably tough, yet in another sense, isn’t it also an expansive new frontier?

Answering the invitation, Hua Country Sports Television dispatched reporter Xia Guang to Texas, tasked with tracking the race for real-time updates.

Even before arriving, Xia Guang noticed the locals’ fervor for the event: streets dotted with fans sporting jackets emblazoned with support for specific athletes, families hauling tents to spectate—a testament to the decades-long legacy of this extreme challenge.

She interviewed random passersby before addressing the camera:

“Our nation’s sole participant, Chu Tingwu, is an eighteen-year-old freshman at Hua Country University of Science and Technology, and a gold medalist in the International Biology Olympiad.”

“In fact, this young competitor has…” She paused. “…competed in multiple sports, served as a parkour judge, and is herself a seasoned practitioner—holding the record for highest unprotected free solo climb, completing night skiing on Kashe Snow Mountain, wild-snow speed descents, and other extreme feats. Most recently, she topped the women’s division at the International Alpine Skiing Championship, shattering the kilometer-long downhill record with a time of 1:08.676.”

Anyone hearing this would assume Chu Tingwu was a lifelong extreme athlete, but Xia Guang had seen her file:

No standout achievements in elementary or middle school, just above-average athleticism—no formal training, either. Yet by high school, she’d transformed. Many speculated about her coach, even grilling her PE teacher at Fifth Middle School, only to realize: Chu Tingwu likely trained alone or with a private tutor.

After all, she’d secured an orthopedic hospital *before* starting—proof the coach’s identity mattered less.

While filming b-roll, the sports channel’s van pulled into the training grounds. Greeted by staff, Xia Guang stuck to her mission: clarifying the race’s rules and logistics for viewers unfamiliar with endurance events.

A staffer explained as they walked:

“Preparations begin before the snow falls.”

“Driving from Texas to Stardust State takes a full day, but the race route—crossable on foot in theory—demands over five days. Skiing changes that. With boards, our athletes fly across the snow, and we must ensure an unobstructed course.”

“Teams clear debris and hazardous metals pre-snowfall, install cameras to monitor trespassers, and test snow depth daily for a month before inviting athletes.”

He pointed ahead: “This practice area is a flat zone off the main track. Pre-race, competitors warm up here, often with family or friends observing.”

Indeed, alongside loved ones, local media had gathered.

Xia Guang signaled her cameraman to capture drills while mentally noting to interview Chu Tingwu later. But which one was she?

As her eyes scanned the field, snowball fights erupted among trainees—until she spotted Chu Tingwu, hat off, huddled with another contestant, admiring… handmade crafts?

The rival gifted Chu Tingwu a clay calico cat figurine; in return, Chu Tingwu offered a needle-felted German shepherd (“made from cat fur,” she clarified). The real-life muse—a tail-wagging, jacket-clad dog in a tiny windproof cap—waited eagerly beyond the safety net.

The exchange delighted the recipient, who gushed, “Oh! It’s so fluffy! I’ll box it up, or my dog Jessie might lick it to death!”

Both then reached through the net to pet the actual pup.

This “friendship over rivalry” moment had Xia Guang frantically gesturing to her cameraman: *Get all of this.* She then approached Chu Tingwu:

“Mind an interview?”

The athlete seemed to be on break.

Chu Tingwu gestured. “Should I come out?”

Xia Guang: “If it’s not too much troub—”

Where *was* the gate?

As she turned to look, a shadow swooped down beside her. Xia Guang’s pupils dilated—only to realize Chu Tingwu had just vaulted (or perhaps *flown*?) over the barrier.

Xia Guang: “^-^”

Somehow… this felt off.

As a sports reporter, she’d met countless elite athletes—even dabbled in training herself years ago. But extreme sportspeople? They carried a distinct, unplaceable air of danger.

It wasn’t that Xia Guang thought Chu Tingwu would attack her.

Rather, she noticed from certain subtle details in the other’s movements that Chu Tingwu possessed the ability to attack someone—and she displayed it openly, without hesitation.

The subsequent interview left Xia Guang somewhat dazed. Chu Tingwu was clearly comfortable in front of the camera, no doubt due to her long experience with livestreaming. She answered questions smoothly, without stumbling, and the interview proceeded without a hitch. Her attitude was friendly, even advising Xia Guang to keep warm afterward to avoid catching a cold.

Xia Guang, who did indeed feel the early signs of a cold—coughing every time the temperature shifted—could only reply, “…Thanks.”

Overthinking wouldn’t help. Work was what truly mattered.

Compared to the enigmatic aura of an athlete like Chu Tingwu, work was far more daunting and treacherous.

Xia Guang quickly dismissed any extraneous thoughts and focused on gathering more footage, capturing scenes of other athletes before finally filming Chu Tingwu during her training session.

Her movements were fluid and graceful, as if she and the equipment had merged into one seamless entity. Watching her train, Xia Guang couldn’t help but recall Chu Tingwu’s extreme sports livestreams.

She’d heard a rumor that if not for Chu Tingwu’s shares in Fenghua Network, her streams might have been banned. In the early days, it was fine, but using VR to broadcast dangerous sports risked fostering a “negative influence”—like giving viewers the mistaken belief that “I could do that too,” leading to reckless attempts at imitation.

They should come see how Chu Tingwu did it in person, rather than inflating their confidence through vicarious VR experiences.

The young couple who’d been having a snowball fight earlier hadn’t appeared during Chu Tingwu’s interview. But as Xia Guang wrapped up, they dashed past her again—the blond boy with snowflakes clinging to his hair, the dark-haired girl of East Asian descent with fingers red from the cold. Xia Guang’s interest piqued, and she stopped the girl.

“Hello, are you from Hua Country? Here to watch the competition?”

The girl glanced at her, pausing mid-step. “I’m family.”

Xia Guang wasn’t entirely surprised—she’d recognized the girl as one of Chu Tingwu’s friends. Having researched Chu Tingwu’s competition results, she’d naturally watched post-match interviews and memorized a few familiar faces. She’d purposely stopped them for a reason.

She asked Zhou Qiang a few standard questions while Shao Lingwu, beside her, shook the snow from his collar and hair before stepping into frame. As Chu Tingwu’s close friends, they were prime candidates for supplementary footage. Xia Guang, sensitive to people’s moods, noted Zhou Qiang’s calm demeanor—whereas Shao Lingwu seemed unusually eager.

Maybe he just really wanted to be on TV?

Once she had the material she needed, she wrapped up the interview, sent the footage back, and returned to the car to discuss with her colleagues. Barring any surprises, the sports channel wouldn’t broadcast the entire competition live, but they’d likely air segments of the opening and closing, totaling about half an hour.

This was an extreme challenge event—unofficial, with limited international recognition, and niche in appeal. Still, it represented a fresh experiment for the sports channel.

“It’s because of VR livestreaming,” Xia Guang mused to her colleagues. “On the surface, VR streaming seems like it’s just reshaping live broadcasts, but really, it’s forcing the entire media industry to adapt. It’s not just changing how news spreads—it’s lowering barriers to dissemination and education while deepening audience immersion!”

Parkour, rock climbing, skiing, skydiving, sailing… how many people would seek out these sports on their own? And even if they stumbled upon videos, most athletes weren’t professional editors—what could have been thrilling footage often ended up dull, unlikely to go viral.

But experiencing it all through VR? That was an entirely different story.

If people were tuning into VR streams, they wanted excitement—a new frontier, and Chu Tingwu had set the tone from the very beginning: *Come watch me push the limits!*

That’s what she’d declared.

In the two-plus years since VR streaming took off, countless obscure sports had surged into the mainstream. Before this assignment abroad, Xia Guang had even bought her younger sister tickets to a skateboarding competition. A year ago, she hadn’t known the first thing about skateboarding. Now, she could rattle off the names of top domestic athletes and their signature moves.

Public enthusiasm had shifted the priorities of those in power—and she’d just interviewed the one who’d planted the seed.

Chu Tingwu removed her equipment, slung an arm around Zhou Qiang’s neck, and draped herself over her friend. “What’s for dinner?”

They’d spent the past few days sampling Texan cuisine—only to learn the hard way that experimentation wasn’t always wise. So tonight, it was wraps from the place next door.

Chu Tingwu’s expression shifted from “eager kitten” to “displeased cat” in an instant. “Let’s stop for groceries on the way back…”

Fine. She’d cook. An experienced athlete had to handle her own meals, after all.

Naturally, the system piped up, offering to summon a whole team of chefs for her. Chu Tingwu replied, “The hotel doesn’t have room for that many.”

Besides, even master chefs might not make food to her exact preferences.

After dinner, she placed the clay cat figurine she’d acquired on the nightstand. Sanwuwu glanced at it, then deliberately skirted around the spot when hopping onto the bed, curling up neatly beside Chu Tingwu’s pillow instead, tail flicking lazily—until Zhou Qiang nudged her aside. “Move over, Sanwuwu. I need to put the blanket down.”

She’d really moved in, even vacuuming the bed before settling in for the night.

The moment the vacuum roared to life, Chu Tingwu bolted for the balcony faster than Sanwuwu could react.

Sanwuwu: “!?”

Well… she could tolerate noise, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

So the system played music in Chu Tingwu’s ear—which soon transitioned into a comedy skit. Chu Tingwu: “Pfft.”

Shao Lingwu, passing by just in time to catch the laugh: “==?”

He steeled himself, took two steps forward, then deflated entirely by the time he reached the armchair across from her—but he sat down anyway, arms crossed, doing his best to project *I’m sulking.*

Chu Tingwu: “Toothache?”

Shao Lingwu: “?”

Wait, no—wasn’t she supposed to pick up on his frustration, confusion, embarrassment, and the words stuck in his throat—

Shao Lingwu: “…Maybe?”

“Oh.” The girl rummaged slowly through her pockets before producing a piece of corn candy. “Here. The restaurant gave these out. Sugar helps.”

Shao Lingwu: “?”

He took the candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. The vacuum still droned on in the background as Chu Tingwu fished out another candy—strawberry-flavored, identical in packaging but somehow sweeter-looking than the one he’d gotten.

Chewing, Shao Lingwu finally mumbled, “I’ve actually made progress on that assignment I haven’t turned in yet. I’ve been working on it—it’s a song adaptation.”

Back at the start of the semester, their advisor had collected their social media handles—especially those who’d posted music online—to gauge their skill levels. Some assignments required public uploads, with audience metrics factoring into their grades.

Shao Lingwu had been uploading instrumental music to his account for several years, with a few tracks going viral. Yet he neither marketed himself nor showed his face, showing little interest in formal releases. The managers who privately messaged him years ago were still blocked by his strict privacy settings—so much so that even his gender remained a mystery.

The first song Shao Lingwu ever wrote with actual lyrics was *The Cat Song*, which debuted live during the *Cat Can’t Learn* city competition. In truth, the lyrics sounded more like a frustrated cat cursing after failing to solve a problem, earning it the alternate title *The Cat’s Rant*.

Later, he composed many more pieces for *Cat Can’t Learn*, contributing most of the game’s background music. Under the pseudonym "05," he also provided scattered tracks for other games. Like the virtual idol *Tianshi*, he even had a system—later renamed Phoenix—with a private (system) account.

But he had never written a song with truly meaningful lyrics before, and Chu Tingwu and Zhou Qiang both knew that was precisely why he was stuck now.

Chu Tingwu: *"If you're adapting it, since you're good at arranging, even minor lyric changes should work, right?"*

Shao Lingwu: *"Mm… but I’ve actually been working on this song for two years."*

He hummed a segment, and Chu Tingwu fell into thought: *Wasn’t that the local folk song Rex had sung before?*

But why would Shao Lingwu spend so long reworking…

Shao Lingwu: *"It’s also a local folk song, so I often collect a lot of folk music for reference—"*

Chu Tingwu suddenly pulled out her phone and played the sound of a vacuum cleaner right next to his ear. The mischievous boy dodged, collapsing onto the couch in surrender, and obediently finished his sentence:

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com.

*"But I feel like the emotion! The emotion still isn’t strong enough!"*

The evolution of a folk song—adapting it into a trendy, shareable track, amplifying the original lyrical sentiment, adding flashy technical flourishes, or preserving its raw, authentic melody while refining the lyrics’ cohesion… There were too many directions, and his understanding of the song itself kept shifting, leaving him unable to commit.

The song was called *Jizhou River Boat Song*.

Shao Lingwu lay sprawled on the narrow balcony couch, legs dangling off the edge as he leaned back. Chu Tingwu stood against the light behind her, snowflakes scattering outside the window without ever touching her head.

She mimed a gun with her hand, resting it under her chin:

*"You’re dissatisfied… because you’re expecting too much from one song."*

Her gaze seemed to pierce through something in an instant: *"You know no song can please everyone or bear responsibilities beyond itself. If someone abandons suicide because of a song, or finds spiritual release… the song is just a catalyst. A song’s only job is to sound good, right?"*

The world wouldn’t change just because a song existed—just as Chu Tingwu didn’t believe she alone had altered the landscape of extreme sports.

If change happened.

It was only because the possibility had always been there.

She heard Shao Lingwu’s heartbeat, sensed his mood settling—*thump, thump*—blood rushing as his "scent" slowly blended with the aroma of corn candy.

Chu Tingwu rolled the candy in her mouth from one cheek to the other, then reached out to ruffle Shao Lingwu’s hair, earning a resigned side-eye.

Shao Lingwu slid off the couch onto the floor, then shimmied into the living room, as if suddenly remembering he could walk—like a stubborn piece of corn candy finally peeling off the floor. Then, abruptly, he turned to Chu Tingwu, eyes bright and expression grave:

*"...For the record, I didn’t blow up the school’s septic tank."*

Chu Tingwu: *Hm. Truth.*

Though her human lie-detector instincts couldn’t fathom why he’d dropped such a *fragrant* bombshell, she nodded in agreement.

Later, Chu Tingwu returned to her room, where Zhou Qiang had finished cleaning and laid out a pink fleece blanket for Sanwu (Three-Five-Five) as a designated cat bed. Currently, Sanwu was kneading it relentlessly.

By the time Chu Tingwu finished washing up and went to bed, the blanket had slid onto the carpet, and Sanwu was splayed belly-up in the center, one hind paw casually draped over Zhou Qiang’s arm.

Zhou Qiang lay motionless, as if already deceased.

Chu Tingwu: *"=="*

As she climbed into bed, the "corpse" suddenly revived, using her free hand to squeeze Sanwu’s paw like a stress ball—as if collecting interest.

*"Oh,"* Zhou Qiang spoke up just as Chu Tingwu turned off the light, *"what if Shao Lingwu* did *blow up the Central Conservatory’s septic tank?"*

Chu Tingwu: *Huh?*

Zhou Qiang’s logic was airtight: *"Why else would he keep skipping class? He’s probably too scared to go back."*

Chu Tingwu reached over and patted her head:

*"Goodnight."*

—

The preview for *Texas Endurance Ski Race* aired on Hua Country Sports Television that morning.

Because the actual race would begin that same night.

The preview aired in the morning, followed by a live broadcast of the first half-hour at 8 PM—eventually stretching to an hour and twenty minutes—and unsurprisingly, roughly 80% of that footage would feature Chu Tingwu.

In a rare move, Chu Tingwu’s account zombied back to life to repost the channel’s promotional post.

Compared to her detached calm, her affiliated companies and invested platforms enthusiastically amplified her signal, launching their own fervent campaigns.

Some fans dug up details: While the sports channel only covered the start and finish, the international event’s official account would post the full recording. Dedicated fans of other competitors even compiled edited versions, including on-site fan cams.

So Chu Tingwu’s followers turned to their group chats asking:

*[Where’s our fan leader?]*

*[There was supposed to be one (lights cigarette)… but System vetoed it.]*

Fan leaders and big accounts were inevitable in any sizable fandom, and some could even liaise directly with studios. But the moment professional fan accounts emerged, System stepped in to snuff them out.

Professional fans monetized their access to a star’s info and schedules, but System believed it could handle all that itself—without the baggage.

Thus, Chu Tingwu’s fans were mostly limited to buying official merch.

And because of that, if the star didn’t want her whereabouts known… no amount of stalking would help, and might even earn them a pair of *limited-edition* metal bracelets.

But this time, Chu Tingwu was competing in a public event with official interviews. Surely even the most stubborn professional fans couldn’t be barred from filming now, right?

With this thought in mind, some professional fan accounts vaguely posted announcements, stating they would chase the itinerary (literally driving after her, the kind of grueling, exhausting pursuit that takes real effort), and suggested fans follow them for updates.

Meanwhile, in the fan groups, veteran fans counted down the time and first advised the newcomers—

[No need, just wait a little longer.]

Sure enough, ten minutes before the competition was about to begin, Chu Tingwu’s account went live, pulling away all the traffic.

And this time, it wasn’t just drone footage—there was also a professional director (signed under Phoenix Pictures) chasing her with high-end equipment, capturing additional angles. It seemed they were determined to make their artist’s live footage the smoothest and most flawless possible.

The veteran fans reacted as if they'd seen it coming:

[See? We get official footage, way higher quality than anyone else’s.]

[The system is the biggest fan account… The only problem is, it seems like it records everything just to hoard for itself—it never announces a livestream until the last second!]

Seriously, System, are you also a Chu Tingwu stan?

Reporting this kind of thing to Chu Tingwu herself was useless—oh, what, you’re the company’s second-in-command? Yeah, guess that really does make you untouchable.

At times like these, some of Chu Tingwu’s fans couldn’t help but think… maybe those people who refuse to share fandoms have a point!

In the footage, Chu Tingwu, fully geared up, didn’t look too different from the other competitors—but since the camera was fixed on her, the audience had no trouble spotting her.

The competition staggered entries, with five participants starting every half hour, their order determined by random draw. Chu Tingwu drew slot number two.

She was in the first group.

The snowfield bore no artificial marks. At the sound of the starting gun, five trails instantly carved through the snow. The starting point was on the mountainside, ahead lay vast snow plains, dense snow-laden forests, and a frozen lake—a treacherous, varied terrain. Some chose to accelerate immediately, while others—no, wait!

None of them passed up the chance to use the terrain for an early boost.

As if without a single word exchanged, they moved in perfect unison, their bodies leaning into the wind that lifted them forward.