The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 221

When Zhou Qiang got out of the car to drink water, Shao Lingwu was sprawled across the backseat, hugging his phone, completely dead to the world.

She didn’t really need to step out just for a sip of water—she was just feeling a bit carsick after sitting for so long.

From where she stood, she could glimpse the snow trails obscured by the mountains and the official "Texas Endurance Race" barricades at the foot of the slopes. Occasionally, a competitor in ski gear would glide past, and the surrounding crowd would erupt in cheers.

This area was packed with fans and family members of the participants. As per tradition, they’d follow the competitors by car, though they couldn’t access the actual course—just watch from a distance with binoculars.

The race had already been going on for over twenty hours.

And in that time, mishaps had piled up one after another.

Though the organizers had cleared the area of wildlife, one contestant still stumbled upon a waking bear. In the panic to escape, they tumbled into a ravine and broke their leg, later rushed off for treatment.

Two others, realizing they couldn’t sustain their energy for the remaining distance, had wisely withdrawn.

The rest were still pushing forward, with Chu Tingwu holding steady in first place.

In theory, Zhou Qiang and the others shouldn’t have been stuck here with the crowd—they should’ve been ahead, waiting. But their drive had hit a snag. This year’s event drew far more attention than usual, meaning more trailing cars, road checks, and even a collision up ahead, forcing everyone to a halt.

Zhou Qiang spotted a group of Chinese exchange students from Texas but kept her distance, quietly snapping a photo of their cheer banners for Chu Tingwu. When they approached, she smoothly switched to her local dialect.

The students exchanged glances, convinced she must be from some obscure Southeast Asian country they’d never heard of.

Meanwhile, Shao Lingwu—who theoretically had a richer linguistic repertoire—hadn’t left the car at all. Two hours into the race, he’d plugged in his earbuds and started tinkering with something, setting up three displays in the cramped space. No one knew what he was up to.

The moment Zhou Qiang got back in, she could hear him humming in the backseat.

Still, their ride was far more comfortable than Chu Tingwu’s ordeal. Her friend Phoenix seemed to have considerable connections in the U.S., arranging not just the car but also a driver and assistant to handle logistics.

While using the livestream to check on Chu Tingwu’s progress, Zhou Qiang also skimmed online chatter.

Since Chu Tingwu had maintained her lead, reactions were mostly positive. She had a solid fanbase, too. Though she came off as laid-back, absorbed in her hobbies, the law firm her company worked with was notorious for sending cease-and-desists—experienced netizens knew to weigh their words carefully.

But a glance at the stream’s metrics showed that, compared to Chu Tingwu’s usual broadcasts, this official-coverage livestream had lower engagement.

Makes sense—unless you’re a diehard fan, who’d watch twenty straight hours of skiing?

And with her consistently holding first place, the outcome seemed inevitable. A last-minute upset might’ve sparked more discussion.

Zhou Qiang figured as much, though she wouldn’t be surprised no matter how Chu Tingwu placed. Over the next day or so, more competitors would likely drop out.

Few in the field had experience with long-distance wilderness skiing. Historical data suggested they’d soon realize just how grueling the route was and bow out rationally.

That’s why the Texas Endurance Race never advertised records like "fastest time to finish." The course varied slightly each year, weather played its part, and simply completing it was victory enough—regardless of speed.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, a chime sounded from the backseat.

Shao Lingwu popped his head up, holding out a tablet. “Wanna try this?”

Zhou Qiang: “What is it…?”

—

Chu Tingwu quietly adjusted her rest intervals.

Even in the wild, felines weren’t known for endurance. Though she’d practiced Antarctic long-distance skiing in her dream training sessions, she’d never attempted a continuous 20-hour trek—and reality wasn’t a simulation.

Chu Tingwu: “This is a once-a-year race!”

The thought inexplicably lifted her spirits.

No redos. Real competitors. A single annual shot. No room for mistakes, no retreating. No system to fall back on—she had to manage her own pace, rest the moment fatigue crept in.

And fight the loneliness.

She talked to herself more now, but her mindset was steadier than most. She knew the system might not respond, but it was listening. Later, it might replay every word she’d said, even the ones she’d forgotten, with logs to prove it.

The idea made her glance up at the camera, flashing a relaxed, bright smile.

She assumed someone was watching, though she didn’t much care what they thought. Just the sense of being acknowledged carried her a little further. Then she tilted her head, hesitated, and stayed silent—

She could mimic any forest creature’s call, summon some wildlife for company if she wanted.

Fine snow dusted her nose, melting instantly. The quiet woods weren’t truly quiet. Farther out, people ate, cars rolled, conversations blurred into a distant hum beneath the wind.

Chu Tingwu refocused.

“The Antarctic Cup’s set for winter… Hard to spot wildlife then, but perfect for the aurora.”

The system stayed mute.

She readjusted her helmet, flexed her slightly tingling legs, and pushed off with her poles. The wind’s whisper surged around her in seconds.

She pretended it was just some nameless song.

—

Zhou Qiang studied the “game” on the tablet.

It was far simpler than most—the screen showed Chu Tingwu skiing, pulled from earlier livestream footage, but with a control panel overlaid. Yet the player’s role didn’t seem to be steering her.

The "player's" avatar hovered beside Chu Tingwu like a ghostly milky-white silhouette, while golden dot-shaped obstacles occasionally appeared ahead. When these obstacles emerged, the player had to press the correct keys to make the silhouette mimic Chu Tingwu's movements on-screen, gliding smoothly while shattering the obstacles.

If every input was accurate, a melody would naturally flow from the actions.

Zhou Qiang: "Isn't this just a rhythm game?"

After a moment of thought, she realized that even if the player did nothing, the video would still play with background music—almost as if it were being "skated out" by Chu Tingwu herself.

It was just that the rhythm synced so seamlessly with the visuals that she hadn’t noticed the music at first.

But she had to admit, the music played a significant role in the video’s appeal—especially for content with minimal substance.

Many sports montages added background tracks precisely because music filled the gaps, and some tunes even hooked viewers from the start, preventing them from clicking away before reaching the interesting parts.

Of course, in rhythm games, the quality of the music could make or break the experience.

Zhou Qiang’s sharp reflexes and quick memory served her well—after warming up her fingers, she breezed through this prototype rhythm game.

On-screen, the silhouette beside Chu Tingwu mirrored her movements perfectly, clearing every obstacle with precision. The repetition of these synchronized actions looked undeniably cool… though Zhou Qiang still didn’t quite get it:

"Are you planning to compose the soundtrack for this game?"

Shao Lingwu had done this before, but back then, it was just background ambience—now it was a full-fledged melody. And it didn’t sound like a recycled hit; it seemed tailored to Chu Tingwu’s skating tempo and movements.

But if this was the quality Universal Gaming Platform was aiming for with its upcoming release, it fell short.

Was this just a concept mod, a teaser to be refined after Chu Tingwu’s competition?

Shao Lingwu seemed lost in thought before finally saying, "No."

"Once the competition ends, the hype will fade… Actually, within three hours of the event starting, casual viewers will already start dropping off."

Who’d want to watch a nearly three-day-long competition live? Even fans would likely just tune in for the start and the finale.

And if the Texas Endurance Race was like this, the Antarctic Cup—longer and more grueling—would be even harder to sell. The thrill and agony were things only the athletes could truly appreciate. It was clear why extreme sports struggled with promotion.

Shao Lingwu: "Tingwu’s never said it outright, but I think she’s serious about promoting the sport. She’s open with her ideas during streams… Think about it: If you solved a tough problem, would you rather keep the solution to yourself to show off—or share it, so others can learn, turning hard problems into easy ones, and then tackle even bigger challenges?"

He could tell that Wu Voice Group’s products were all about lowering the barrier to understanding extreme sports.

At first, people had no way in—but now, they could listen, watch, and feel it through other mediums.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Between curiosity and trying it firsthand, there was still a gap… Even with "safer" extremes like parkour or skateboarding, many would never take the plunge.

Shao Lingwu was no different.

Before meeting Chu Tingwu, he’d scroll past those adrenaline-fueled clips online—no matter how cool or well-edited, they were just fleeting entertainment.

But the longer he knew her, the clearer her goal became: Her VR livestream gear, semi-holographic games, upgraded gaming pods, new playstyles, organized events—beyond personal challenges, her purpose seemed simple—

"Come play with me!"

Shao Lingwu glanced at his own arms and legs, then thought of Chu Tingwu’s almost superhuman physique, and sighed.

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

But maybe he could help in other ways.

Lower barriers and better outreach might draw more talented people into the sport… Even if not for Chu Tingwu, he wanted to see how the world could change.

Zhou Qiang paused, then smirked:

"You usually just call her by her full name. Why ‘Tingwu’ just now?"

Shao Lingwu: "…"

Zhou Qiang: "?"

Shao Lingwu: "QAQ"

Zhou Qiang: Hmph.

This guy’s vibes were off. Maybe she should kick him out into the snow to cool down.

—

The rough mod Shao Lingwu showed Zhou Qiang wasn’t even his own work—he had no coding skills. He’d just privately messaged the system.

After the Universal Editor launched, indie studios on the Universal Gaming Platform had already rolled out skiing-themed games.

Partly because skiing was a common genre, and partly to ride the hype. But whether clunky or polished, none could match Universal’s visuals.

While none were rhythm games yet, some rhythm titles had snowy maps.

The ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‍platform’s current breakout hit was *War Maestro*, where players "conducted" by choosing the right "weapon" placements to orchestrate explosive symphonies.

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With its war theme, unconventional instruments, fresh maps, and competitive multiplayer mode—plus compatibility with VR livestream gear—it had gained traction.

But veteran players browsing the platform’s rhythm catalog would quickly notice: "The gameplay’s not much different from standard rhythm games—just prettier."

Rhythm games tested reflexes. Switching from flat screens to VR or semi-holographics still boiled down to hitting the right cues at the right time… So even *War Maestro*’s players eventually drifted back to familiar titles once the novelty wore off.

Semi-holographics demanded more movement but sacrificed precision, nullifying speedsters’ edge. Some preferred *Instrument Room* to play real virtual instruments—or even take online lessons.

Fu Zhou was one of those veteran rhythm game players who had stepped back from semi-holographic gaming.

In real life, he had studied piano and topped the leaderboards in several rhythm games. Currently, his favorite title on the Universal Gaming Platform was *Maze Water Gun*, and he occasionally tuned into Chu Tingwu’s streams—a casual, friendly fan, having discovered her through one of her company’s games.

But as a casual observer, he only knew from headlines that Chu Tingwu was competing in some snowboarding-related event abroad. As for the specifics—how the competition worked, her results—he had no clue.

…Had she not placed well? If she had, wouldn’t it have trended for a while?

He didn’t even realize the competition was still ongoing.

That is, until today, when a friend from the rhythm game community urgently called him: “Master Zhou, check this link! Do you know how to snowboard? You should try this!”

Fu Zhou: “……”

Where was he supposed to learn snowboarding?

At first glance, it seemed like another semi-holographic rhythm game, but Fu Zhou had always found the experience restrictive—flashy visuals didn’t make up for the lack of engaging gameplay. The title, *In Progress*, didn’t even hint at any snowboarding theme.

But as he scrolled further, he understood his friend’s urgency—

This *was* a semi-holographic rhythm game, but its selling point was a 1:1 recreation of Chu Tingwu’s participation in the Texas Endurance Race. Players would assume the role of an unnamed competitor, skiing alongside her in real time.

The game integrated rhythm mechanics into the snowboarding actions—meaning that a flawless run would result in a perfect musical collaboration with “Chu Tingwu.”

The promotional material explained that each song represented a level. Since the competition wasn’t over yet, the total number of “snowboarding” stages remained unknown—and players had to clear the first song to unlock the second.

That part was standard. The twist?

A shared global cooldown.

Every player could attempt the first song, but once *one* person cleared it, their name would be recorded as the trailblazer in the level description—along with a ¥5,000 promotional reward.

Every level had this incentive.

Fu Zhou sat up straight. If there were, say, a hundred songs, that meant ¥500,000 in total rewards. And given the Wu Voice Group’s reputation, the payouts would be guaranteed.

No wonder his friend was rushing him—early birds stood to earn.

Plenty of others had seen the announcement too. The cash incentive and the “Universal Gaming Platform” branding acted as a guarantee—even if the gameplay fell flat, the production quality wouldn’t.

The game’s release also brought more attention to Chu Tingwu’s competition. A quick search later—

Fu Zhou: “It’s been going for *twenty-four hours*?”

Wait, what shocked him more was that it *still wasn’t over*. How long was this event supposed to last? And if the game truly replicated her movements 1:1… then the song selection would have to be *extremely* precise to match the pacing. How could it possibly sync perfectly? Even if players cleared one level per day, they’d never finish in time. It had to be a marketing gimmick.

He settled into his holographic pod, selected the game, and braced for the familiar semi-holographic immersion. The sound of wind and snow filled his ears, a faint chill creeping in. With a glance to the side, he saw “Chu Tingwu” just a meter away.

Fully geared in snowboarding equipment, her eyes were the only visible feature behind the goggles. She stared ahead, indifferent to the player’s presence.

Fu Zhou muttered, “She’s probably competing right now…”

Here he was, about to relive her movements from a day prior, while the real Chu Tingwu was still in the race. The thought was surreal.

But he wasn’t intimidated. He might not know snowboarding, but rhythm games? *Please*.

The music swelled, and virtual guide lines appeared before him. After a split-second delay, he realized—he needed to position his hands within those markers.

Sure enough, the next moment, he adjusted his stance. The beat kicked in, and new prompts appeared—shifting his legs, micro-adjusting his arms, leaning forward—

Then, a gust of wind slammed into him.

No—wait—it wasn’t the wind. It was the music surging as he *launched* forward, chasing the storm.

His board carved an arc through the snow. A flicker of movement in his periphery—Chu Tingwu, keeping pace.

But something felt *off*.

What was it?

---

Shao Lingwu gestured excitedly. “The body *is* the instrument—the bow. That’s why this game differs from traditional rhythm games. Missing a note doesn’t just mean a gap in the music—it creates a *discordant* sound.”

Shao Lingwu had the ideas, but the execution relied on the system. His real job was composing.

His teacher needn’t worry about his unfinished homework anymore… because he was composing *constantly*—just not for assignments.

So far, he’d completed three tracks. But accounting for Chu Tingwu’s breaks and less dynamic stretches, he estimated needing *two hundred* more instrumental pieces for this game.

…Well.

Might as well pick out a coffin now.

Thankfully, not all two hundred had to be ready the moment the competition ended—and he wouldn’t be doing it alone. The system assured him it could handle the bulk.

It wasn’t the first time the system had scored the cub’s videos. Its compositions were technically flawless—no errors, though lacking in “spark.”

But the system didn’t mind. It doubted the cub cared either. If this human wanted to overwork himself, the system had no objections to utilizing his labor.

Shao Lingwu could compose from scratch or remix the system’s drafts—but if the results were subpar, the system would reject them.

Still, aware of human creative burnout, it quietly tweaked the early levels’ difficulty.

By now, many players had realized:

*Not a single one* had achieved a “Perfect” rating on the first stage.

Most assumed they’d nailed the motions by following the guides—only to realize their timing was *off*.

Fu Zhou was on the phone with his friend, his screen split between the game and Chu Tingwu’s live competition footage:

“The guide markers give you *less than a second* to react! The real reference is Chu Tingwu’s movements beside you!”

“I turned on the real-time scoring display and tried a few times before realizing—to win that five thousand bucks, from an outsider’s perspective, your moves need to mirror the athlete next to you like you’re twins!”

Timing had to be just right too!

For a professional skier, this might feel restrictive, but casual players wouldn’t notice, too busy struggling just to imitate.

Fu Zhou’s mind buzzed with musical notes, clinking like wind chimes as he replayed the competition scene before him. It lasted only minutes, but his brain had already composed a whole song—

He began to sense a distinct rhythm.

The notes were movements, and the movements were notes. Perfection wasn’t about the score; it was about syncing with the chorus’s beat.

Oh right…the game had an "Assist Mode." What was that like? Some kind of VR livestream possession?

Fu Zhou dove back into the game, curiosity burning.

It wasn’t just about the prize money now—he wanted to hear that song played flawlessly. He wanted to see what a perfect run down this course would look like.

Assist Mode activated.

But it wasn’t like a livestream. Chu Tingwu was still beside him, and Fu Zhou saw the guide lines again—except this time, his lower body moved on its own, mirroring Chu Tingwu’s stance.

Then the snowboard launched him into the air.

Fu Zhou: “Wait, wait, wait—!”

The board executed the complex maneuvers flawlessly midair, keeping pace with Chu Tingwu without needing poles.

Fu Zhou: “Aaaah—!”

Caught off guard, his upper body flailed, hammering out a chaotic jumble of notes. Without proper stance prep—he’d assumed the system would handle everything—balance was a lost cause.

His feet were glued to the board, stuck to the possessed thing like it had a mind of its own.

By the second half, he gave up, flopping over the board like a ragdoll.

Hah…this angle—probably one even Chu Tingwu had never seen. Felt like he could take a nap midair.

He waved an arm, and notes tumbled out in disarray, though a few catchy phrases slipped through. Not bad!

Too good not to share. He’d post this later. Everyone needed to try it.

Damn—moved wrong. Faceplant!

-

Chu Tingwu rubbed her nose.

It tingled.

Weird. During that run, she’d felt like a ghost was clinging to her feet—a lethargic one, dragging behind her like dead weight. Must’ve been the snow glare playing tricks on her.