The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 222

Chu Tingwu had a rare dream.

After binding with the system, she seldom dreamed anymore, because even in dreams, she remained lucid. All the whimsical ideas she couldn’t fulfill during the day, the system would bring to life in her nighttime dreams.

And Chu Tingwu never felt exhausted from learning too much in her dreams—it was as if she had simply gained an extra stretch of time, with both body and mind fully rested.

But when her wristband buzzed her awake today, she was still somewhat groggy.

The brief rest hadn’t completely eased the soreness in her muscles, but at least there was enough food to somewhat soothe her spirit.

After freshening up, Chu Tingwu finally encountered the second competitor.

She was well-rested and ready to set off, but the other seemed to have just arrived, deciding to take a break. Spotting her, they froze momentarily.

—According to the competition rules, they couldn’t communicate. They were supposed to act as if the other didn’t exist.

Still, Chu Tingwu stepped out of the tent and glanced around, noticing fresh tracks in the snow: as expected, while she was resting, someone had passed by outside, overtaking her to become the de facto first-place contestant.

But by Chu Tingwu’s estimate, that person probably hadn’t rested at all.

She gave the competitor marked with a bold "No. 7" on their front and back a glance before gliding away from the campsite.

Along the way, she detected not just human traces but also signs left by animals—scattered footprints in the snow, bits of food scraps… Perhaps because dreaming gave her the illusion of having truly rested, the surroundings, though partly repetitive, now seemed oddly fresh again.

A cool breeze brushed past as she quietly adjusted her breathing. The rustling movements of small animals nearby grew clearer—

Livestream: "No. 2 contestant suddenly turned her head—is she changing her route?"

It was already the third day of the competition, and viewers had grown thoroughly familiar with "No. 2 contestant."

Humans naturally admire strength. Though Chu Tingwu was a competitor from another country, after holding the lead for two full days, the audience had spent that time learning about her background and how to pronounce her name.

They called "WU" an undisputed genius.

The livestream cameras favored her, always cutting to her shots. People were fixated on whether someone would eventually surpass her or if she’d maintain her lead until the end.

Even when Chu Tingwu was just eating, the official broadcast would abruptly switch to film her for a while, displaying other competitors’ stats and positions on the side.

By the third day, more than half the race was over, and the number of dropouts had reached double digits.

Many of them had entered with impressive accolades, having trained in skiing longer than Chu Tingwu, some since childhood, with more outstanding records and larger fanbases.

But the livestream chat was increasingly flooded with "WU"—some typing the name just to see what she was up to, others seeking out her dedicated fan-cam streams to check her current condition.

By the third day, many had hit a slump. Some simplified their movements to conserve stamina, while others showed slight deterioration in form, clearly running on sheer willpower due to insufficient rest.

The 66-year-old skiing enthusiast who once attempted this route had participated last year, finishing in 122 hours and 48 minutes. This year, he opted out but didn’t forget to share updates about the competition on social media, adding words of encouragement:

"The challenge’s success benchmark is 66 hours and 25 minutes—not an arbitrary number, because that was my time twenty years ago. Now, two decades later, skiing gear has advanced, rules are refined, and competitors can rest at campsites and refuel with ease… so I’m looking forward to seeing how this endurance challenge unfolds."

Perhaps he could no longer match his past self, his stamina having waned with age, and sheer grit might not carry him through the latter half.

But clearly, the records would keep being broken by younger athletes. And perhaps… competitions like this would evolve into even more demanding, more thrilling versions.

Like relocating the course somewhere with fewer obstructions and a longer track—Antarctica!

"No. 2 contestant just removed her mask—is she trying to shock herself awake with the cold? Wait, no, she’s actually—"

Chu Tingwu ignored the cameras around her, her gaze fixed on the distance, eyes sparkling with faint amusement. Then:

"Awooo—!"

A perfect imitation of a wolf’s cry tore from her throat, echoing eerily through the forest. Just as viewers began to wonder, the livestream abruptly cut to another angle—revealing a wolf at the edge of the frame.

Another howl followed, this time from an actual wolf. Though organizers had driven wild wolves away before the race, clearly, in their winter hunt for prey, the pack had strayed close to the course again. Humans were the intruders here—yet some viewers leapt up in alarm, exclaiming, "Don’t let the wolves disrupt the race!"

Hunting rifles!

Hunting rifles!

Another howl rang out—this one from Chu Tingwu—seeming to beckon, or perhaps hurry the wolves along.

On screen, the wolf glanced almost knowingly at the camera before retreating. The elder of the pack suddenly turned and clamped its jaws around the scruff of a dazed adolescent, sending the younger wolf spinning midair in a flustered scramble.

Then, the gray shadows vanished from view, leaving only paw prints in the snow.

Chu Tingwu let out one last cry, and when the camera cut back to her, viewers caught the faint curve of a smile on her lips.

Then, she reached out and slapped the "120 km" marker as she passed.

In that moment, she crossed paths with the No. 1 competitor, who whipped his head around, the whites of his eyes streaked with red.

Chu Tingwu soared past him toward the snow-blanketed rocky shoals below, the uneven terrain seemingly shattering her laughter into fragments. The No. 1 competitor, already slowing, halted at the crest of the slope. The snow beneath his skis crumbled and cascaded down, scattering into the wind.

He let out a soundless, wry chuckle:

…Fine. He needed to rest. Otherwise, he’d definitely make mistakes later.

—

Chu Tingwu, meanwhile, was the opposite—utterly invigorated, growing even more spirited the further she went.

If her system could speak now, it might’ve warned its charge: her body was still fatigued, but forced into motion, that exhaustion was temporarily suppressed, replaced by an unnatural, hyperactive energy.

In theory, this state of heightened mental alertness shouldn't last too long—much like the effects of caffeine-fueled all-nighters, where efficiency still falls short of properly rested work. But for now, it was more than enough.

Chu Tingwu’s movements weren’t as sharp as they had been on the first day, but she was still faster than every other competitor on the course.

It wasn’t just speed, though. There was a sense of complete relaxation in her skiing, an unhurried, effortless grace that made even the spectators feel at ease just watching her. Because she moved without urgency, no one felt anxious for her—until someone glanced at the real-time data on the screen and suddenly realized:

She’s *fast*.

But it wasn’t as if Chu Tingwu was forcing herself to go faster. Rather, it was as if the snowboard itself had been invented for this very purpose—to let humans glide swiftly across the snow, a long, flat "foot" replacing legs that would otherwise sink into the powder. If speed was its original intent, then wasn’t it only natural for Chu Tingwu to reach the other side so quickly?

For a moment, the crowd found themselves thinking, half-dazed:

Watching her ski… makes skiing look *fun*. Maybe I should try it too?

---

A crowd had gathered at the finish line.

The final stretch before the end was a gentle slope, and those waiting there could see the sunlight spilling over its crest as competitors descended one by one.

But many weren’t prepared for what came next.

The race had started at 9 a.m. on the first day. Normally, the first-place finisher might arrive late on the third night or early on the fourth morning… Yet, after tracking Chu Tingwu’s progress, everyone knew she would arrive much sooner, without a single misstep. Some of her newer fans, who’d quickly fallen for her during the race, only realized upon arriving: *Isn’t this way too early?*

On reflection, Chu Tingwu hadn’t rested any less than the others—her pace was just steadier. Conversations bubbled up among the spectators: *"Women do tend to have better endurance and cold resistance,"* *"Men might have a slight edge in explosive strength and stamina,"* and so on. All the while, they watched the slope’s edge, waiting for the first challenger to appear.

Shao Lingwu, shoved to the back of the crowd: *"..."*

Zhou Qiang had already given up. She’d parked her car on the outskirts and climbed onto the roof to sit, phone in hand, still watching the live feed.

Plenty of others were doing the same. But just as Shao Lingwu turned to look for an official, a furry paw tapped his face.

Three-Five-Five, who had been curled in his arms, scrambled onto his shoulder—then settled squarely on his head.

Shao Lingwu: *"...Three-Five-Five, you’re getting heavy."*

As if hearing his silent complaint, the cat leaped off his head, landed on the shoulders of the spectators in front, and then hopped gracefully onto the railing at the front. She padded along the narrow bar, moving from the east side to the west for the best view. The event staff, who had been maintaining order until a cat disrupted it: *"..."*

Why was there a competitor’s ID tag hanging from the cat’s collar?

Before the staff could shoo her away, a wave of cheers erupted from the crowd.

Xia Guang’s eyes lit up the moment she spotted the figure at the top of the slope. As a reporter, she had prime positioning and darted ahead to the entrance—

Competitor No. 2, though briefly overtaken during rest periods, had recovered well and surged ahead of the others, becoming the first to reach the finish line in Stardusk Valley, completing the cross-state skiing challenge.

She had skied alone, without conversation or outside assistance, navigating 860 kilometers of treacherous snowfields entirely on her own terms. Total time: 49 hours, 22 minutes. Rest: 7 hours, 16 minutes. Her spirits were high, and she could still stand unaided at the finish—though her smile showed faint exhaustion.

Chu Tingwu’s eyes curved slightly. Three-Five-Five jumped down from the railing and wove between her legs, tail brushing her calves as if sensing her fatigue. The cat didn’t leap into her arms, though.

When Chu Tingwu lifted her gaze, she saw Zhou Qiang and Shao Lingwu being let through by the staff.

The event team helped her remove her gear—Zhou Qiang steadied her, Shao Lingwu knelt to unclip her snowboard, and Three-Five-Five couldn’t resist any longer, meowing as she pawed at Chu Tingwu’s boots, as if trying to massage her feet through the material.

Someone began to clap. Then another. Soon, applause swelled into a roaring wave, drowning out even the reporters’ voices.

But Xia Guang noticed Chu Tingwu’s expression remained calm, only the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

An 18-year-old girl should have been more excited—she’d not only completed the challenge but shattered records. Yet she only murmured something under her breath:

*"Phoenix?"*

[QAQ]

Chu Tingwu: *"Pfft."*

Why was her system screen, absent for two days, now covered in *QAQ*s? Did it really want to *QAQ* that badly?

Once Chu Tingwu was indoors, Xia Guang finally got her interview. She asked a few simple questions about the race.

The girl tilted her head slightly, as if recalling something, then said:

*"Winter’s wilderness is pretty lively, huh."*

Xia Guang: *"Hm?"*

Chu Tingwu nodded. *"No grand thoughts, really. Just... skiing’s fun. Shame I can’t share the feeling properly. I wish everyone could’ve felt what I did out there."*

Xia Guang chuckled. *"The feeling might be hard to pass on, but the challenges and choices you faced? I think the game got that across."*

Chu Tingwu: *"Huh?"*

The interview wrapped quickly, and while undergoing a brief medical check, Chu Tingwu learned that her system and Shao Lingwu had cooked up some kind of *"game"* during the race.

She raised a finger.

*"I’m playing it as soon as I wake up!"*

But not now. She really... needed to rest.

---

While Chu Tingwu slept like the dead, players of the game were diving in headfirst.

Those with prior skiing experience quickly noticed that each level of the game functioned as a step-by-step tutorial, easing newcomers into the sport.

A pure rhythm game or a dry skiing simulator might not have held attention—but a hybrid of music and motion had players hooked.

And then they started getting creative.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Perfection wasn’t the goal anymore. The fun was in the chaos.

Musicians and content creators, already running out of instruments to play, realized their *bodies* could become instruments too.

Different postures might lead to different "wrong notes," but even mistaken notes can compose a brand-new melody.

After Chu Tingwu completed the challenge, the game promptly updated with a practice arena and a custom competition field. In the practice arena, players could truly start from scratch—learning to ski (or play music)—while the custom field allowed them to import other tracks, generating a competition course with a single click, complete with quirky background music for their skiing challenge.

Of course, some players chose to slack off entirely—

They ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‍simply couldn’t keep up with Chu Tingwu. But by maintaining a fixed posture and muting their own sound effects, they could lie back, enjoying the scenery only skiers usually see… and hey, they even got a view of the sky above, something the skiers missed.

After waking up, Chu Tingwu played a couple of rounds herself, deliberately hitting a wrong note at the very last step of the first level.

Though the correct posture was needed to strike the right notes… as long as the player wasn’t too far behind "Chu Tingwu" herself, a slight deviation could still earn a perfect score.

The competition wasn’t particularly difficult for her, so after a quick run-through, she offered the system some refinements from an athlete’s perspective.

The game still felt a bit rushed, but Chu Tingwu could sense the changes it brought. She thought, *Why not invite more athletes to test it and expand the content?* The current competitors would be perfect candidates.

In fact, she had already taken a nap… and the competition still wasn’t over.

Some players were still on their way—as long as they hadn’t given up or lost consciousness, the challenge continued.

When Chu Tingwu opened the door, Zhou Qiang walked in naturally, holding a tablet:

“Just one match left.”

Scheduled for November, over a month away, Chu Tingwu could return to school in the meantime.

Zhou Qiang had already booked a flight for the next day—she was heading back to Tsinghua University—but she left the decision to Chu Tingwu, considering she might want a few more days to rest.

After all, it had been a grueling endurance event. The school faculty, ever understanding (especially since she was the only Chinese athlete to take first place), had called to congratulate her and check on her health, even suggesting she take extra time off if needed.

Chu Tingwu: “I’ll head back after the last competitor finishes.”

She could also promote the game to them while she waited.

As she stepped out of the room, she found Shao Lingwu brushing Three-Five-Five’s fur, but the cat had pinned his hand down, glaring as if to say, *Are you trying to make me bald?* Chu Tingwu leaned in, considering: “Three-Five-Five doesn’t shed much in winter, and she grooms herself. Maybe try something else?”

Shao Lingwu: “Oh!”

Under Chu Tingwu’s encouraging gaze, he patted Three-Five-Five’s rear.

The room instantly erupted into chaos. As the tortoiseshell cat launched through the air, Chu Tingwu ducked past them, settling onto the now-warm couch to browse the news.

Zhou Qiang, passing by, noticed she was scrolling through local supermarket ads.

Before she could take a closer look, Shao Lingwu darted over, crouching behind the sofa.

Zhou Qiang: *Did you really think that would save you?*

Surprisingly, Three-Five-Five ignored him—because Chu Tingwu held out her arms. The cat promptly leaped into them, wrapping her paws around Chu Tingwu’s wrist, though Zhou Qiang suspected she was just rubbing off unfamiliar scents.

Meanwhile, Shao Lingwu scurried off to open a can for the feline matriarch.

Zhou Qiang: “==”

*Out of these two humans and a cat… the cat might actually be the most reliable.*

Shao Lingwu’s free time stemmed from the game’s release—after mentioning it to his professors, they found it intriguing and redistributed workloads accordingly.

In other words, Shao Lingwu single-handedly saddled his classmates with extra assignments.

Even though *his* homework remained unfinished.

No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry to return to campus.

The next day, Chu Tingwu waved Zhou Qiang off, even lifting Three-Five-Five’s paw for a farewell. On the way back, she redirected the driver.

Their detour led to the nearest motorcycle dealership in Stardust County.

Shao Lingwu was still blinking in confusion when Chu Tingwu hopped out of the car, heading straight for her chosen bike.

…The one she’d spotted in the ads.

The only hiccup? She didn’t have a license.

The salesperson, however, instantly pegged her as a serious buyer and eagerly invited her for a test ride. As for licenses… well, this was Stardust County. Nobody fusses over details like that.

Even age restrictions could be… creatively overlooked.

Shao Lingwu whispered beside Three-Five-Five: “I have a license.”

Chu Tingwu: “?”

Shao Lingwu: “Got it while modifying 819. It’s an international one.”

(819 was his electric tricycle. Notably, his childhood bicycle also had a name: “Nudge.”)

As an electric trike enthusiast, Shao Lingwu dabbled in modifications (with mixed success). His basement was a graveyard of spare parts, and he occasionally dismantled cars for “inspiration” (still not very successful). Since he tinkered with vehicles, his family had insisted he collect every possible license.

—Perhaps they’d forgotten their son’s legendary sense of direction. But getting lost on wheels still beat walking.

At least stranded motorists attracted more helpful strangers.

Hearing this, Chu Tingwu solemnly placed a hand on Shao Lingwu’s shoulder.

Shao Lingwu: *Alright, we’re buying it.*

They picked out helmets too—including a tiny one for pets, though Three-Five-Five despised it.

—

While they shopped, the driver waited in the car, expecting the boss’s daughter and her friend to return shortly.

Instead, he watched them wheel out a sleek black-and-silver motorcycle, its low-slung frame stretching nearly two meters, coiled like a predator rather than some kid’s plaything.

Driver: “…?”

Chu Tingwu swung a leg over the seat. Her friend gestured excitedly, then dashed back to grab his discarded jacket and sling his violin case over his shoulder.

As he adjusted the strap and sprinted toward her, the driver opened his mouth—then closed it.

He watched as Shao Lingwu swung a leg over the motorcycle behind Chu Tingwu, then helped secure Three-Five-Five in place. The two exchanged a smiling glance, though the cat sandwiched between them looked decidedly unamused—though once the helmet was on, its expression became unreadable.

The driver considered lighting a cigarette.

Snow fell silently as Chu Tingwu pulled up her hood. Shao Lingwu wrapped one arm around her and the other around the cat.

Chu Tingwu seemed to be figuring out how to start the bike—perhaps it was her first time riding a motorcycle, or maybe she wasn’t even sure where to refuel. But neither of them seemed particularly concerned.

Nor did they care much about where they were headed.

It was just one of those whimsical days—the snow was light, the weather just right. Maybe the motorcycle would carry them forward until the tank ran dry, and by then, the first snow would have melted, leaving only the wind to greet them on the road.