The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 226

Since all the competitors were seasoned veterans, Chu Tingwu was the last to set off. Six hours later, she still hadn’t encountered any of the skiers ahead of her.

But she could see the traces they’d left behind.

Old marks were buried under new ones, countless tracks scarring the snowy expanse.

After six hours of continuous skiing, most ordinary people would likely be too exhausted to stand, but Chu Tingwu guessed that Wells, the Garnes competitor who had started nine hours before her, probably hadn’t chosen to rest yet either.

This was a long, lonely journey spanning over two thousand kilometers. Chu Tingwu had initially considered speeding up, chasing ahead, overtaking the others one by one… but as the race truly began and the distance from human settlements grew, she glanced back and slowed down instead.

Cats aren’t creatures of endurance.

If there’s anything that can make them persist in an activity for long, it’s likely just one thing: fun.

She checked the route markers—this race path had been jointly scouted by staff and research teams. Unlike in Texas, there was no strict boundary forcing skiers to stay within a designated range.

But obviously, veering off the marked route meant facing more dangers and inevitably taking longer detours.

Their wristwatches also helped guide the way, vibrating to alert them of major deviations, and competitors could use them to send SOS signals with their coordinates.

Chu Tingwu was still on the right path, just not pushing her speed. Occasionally, when the official live feed cut to her, the commentators would note that she was likely conserving energy for the later stages.

They were all experienced athletes who understood that this treacherous, marathon route wasn’t something you could brute-force your way through.

Thanks to heavy promotion, many people, though fuzzy on the details, knew about this race held in Antarctica—a grueling, unsupported cross-country ski spanning over ten days—and that Hua Country had a young competitor participating.

Casual viewers occasionally drifted into the livestream, though the homepage usually featured Wells, currently in the lead. Only by switching to individual feeds could you see the others. Some, unaware of the staggered starts, complained about their home competitor being "in last place."

[There’s no actual ranking right now! Everyone takes breaks at different times—total duration is only calculated after all finishes! Chu Chu started nine hours late!]

While many were just passing spectators, a solid audience was genuinely invested. Some were skiing enthusiasts; others were virtual skiers who, through games, had come to appreciate the difficulty of the techniques and the toll of long-distance skiing. They shared updates, keeping more people informed even if they didn’t watch the streams.

So when the official feed switched back to Chu Tingwu’s perspective, everyone was baffled:

The snow ahead of her was pristine, untouched by any human trace.

A glance at the real-time digital map confirmed it—

Eighteen other dots followed a winding, continuous path. Why was hers the only one that had jumped off? Had she gotten lost?

[Did something happen? I thought they had route guidance. Did her watch break?]

[Will calling the staff help? How do you organize a race and lose the boss?!]

[Setting aside that the boss seems to have wandered off on her own… did you forget one thing? What we’re seeing happened an hour ago—it’s not live!]

That’s right. The boss had gone "missing" over an hour earlier.

Chu Tingwu didn’t think she was lost.

She was just taking a shortcut.

Of course, if the staff had noticed, they’d have screamed bloody murder. The reason this shortcut wasn’t marked was its danger—unexplored terrain, fragile ice layers unable to bear weight, no safe zones for rest.

But no one said a kitten couldn’t take it.

So when Chu Tingwu heard the ice crack beneath her, she refused to blame herself.

Chu Tingwu: "Must be because my gear’s too heavy."

She’d entirely forgotten that this "kitten" weighed a solid hundred-plus pounds.

As she muttered this to herself, the staff monitoring the competitors (especially the boss herself) grew puzzled.

They hadn’t heard anything—hadn’t even sensed impending danger.

At first, seeing Chu Tingwu switch routes, everyone panicked slightly. But soon, the experienced among them realized she was cutting across. Other skiers had done the same, not strictly following the official path.

This was normal. These athletes had the courage to try and the skill to back it up. They weren’t reckless; they had judgment, and with the organizers as safety nets, nothing truly disastrous would happen.

Then the staff noticed Chu Tingwu accelerating.

The digital wristbands tracked speed alongside navigation, displaying wave-like graphs in the backend to assess everyone’s condition. Chu Tingwu’s metrics had been steadily mid-pack, with a slight uptick after her detour but nothing drastic. They’d assumed she was pacing herself—until now.

Her poles struck the ice. From the drone’s angle, her expression was hidden, just the dip of her head before her speed surged.

**"Crack."**

Someone shot to their feet. The drone ascended, capturing the scene below: the skier, the fracturing ice.

The fissures didn’t race toward her from behind—they split open beside her, the ice crumbling left to right. The drone’s mic picked it up only because the break had reached her flank. A staff member’s finger hovered over the emergency alarm.

But the drone kept climbing, shuddering in the wind. The ice reflected the aurora overhead—then Chu Tingwu leapt.

Even with the momentum of her skis, clearing seven or eight meters seemed impossible. Yet she landed cleanly on the other side, immediately adjusting as the terrain there was just as unstable. Behind her, a blizzard of snow erupted into the air.

By Chu Tingwu’s eighth hour, Joan, the sixteenth starter from Garnes, spotted her.

She cut diagonally across Joan’s path. The exhausted sixteenth-place skier instinctively sped up, only to watch as Chu Tingwu veered past the uphill slope’s edge. Like a pixelated game character, she "boinged" twice and vanished, nearly blending into the snowstorm, just a faint puff of powder marking her passage.

Joan: "..."

The uphill section was indeed physically taxing, but the way Chu Tingwu tackled it wasn’t just about danger—she herself had skied it, altering the terrain so drastically that no one behind her could attempt the same path.

Before this, Contestant No. 16 had actually glimpsed No. 15. The two had locked eyes but couldn’t speak due to the rules.

Chu Tingwu, meanwhile, seemed utterly absorbed in the competition. To her, the entire Antarctic was one vast ski slope, rendering any interaction with others unnecessary.

No. 16 even suspected Chu Tingwu hadn’t noticed her at all!

Ha.

Speed up, speed up… It wasn’t because she wanted to overtake Chu Tingwu, but because the sheer exhilaration radiating from Chu Tingwu’s performance had infected her, filling her with anticipation for what lay ahead.

Get to the front, and see the view like never before!

-

The source of this c𝓸ntent is frёeweɓηovel.coɱ.

[How many days into the race is it?]

[Day three. Every livestream has a timer—though, full disclosure, I’m tracking it based on Chu Tingwu’s schedule.]

[I don’t even dare enter Chu Tingwu’s stream anymore. Worried I’ll get hypnotized.]

[(Tearing up) I showed my teacher clips from the first two days, and before I could ask, they said, “Extreme athletes are built different, don’t try this.” But what I really wanted to ask was… has Chu Tingwu mutated or something?]

[Chu Tingwu’s getting wilder by the minute. Look, she’s not even trying to hide the fact she’s not human anymore.]

Everyone knew the livestreams were partly to ensure the athletes’ performances were legitimate. Except for private moments, everything—even sleep—was broadcast.

So, before the race, Chu Tingwu’s fans had joked about being “in for a treat,” since their idol was about to cram a year’s worth of streaming into a few days. But those who actually tuned in were left baffled:

Chu Tingwu, are you seriously not even pretending anymore?

Who the hell can ski nonstop for forty-six hours?!

Forty-six hours straight—Chu Tingwu had only paused for about two hours to eat and attend to biological needs, just enough to feign humanity. The rest of the time, even when the camera caught her face, all anyone saw were those unnervingly alert, bright eyes.

Some speculated she was pushing herself to outpace the competition, but those who knew her understood: while she was often… well, always doing her own thing, she’d never sacrifice her health for a race.

If she wasn’t resting, it was because she didn’t think she needed to.

And she was right.

Chu Tingwu felt more alive with every passing second.

Maybe it was the moment she’d embraced her abilities in the face of danger, or maybe the sheer difficulty of the race had stripped away any pretense of restraint. No thoughts of rankings—just skiing the way she loved, the way that felt most natural.

At least, within the limits of her skis, she hadn’t leaped onto a ten-meter platform mid-race (yet). But more and more viewers were noticing: why did No. 19’s skiing look like flying?

She didn’t have wings, but she turned every element of nature into her ally. Some of her movements seemed odd, yet they worked—no, not just worked.

“If a normal person tried that stance even once, their ankles would snap.”

A few even tried replicating her moves in *In Progress*, though the game hadn’t added the Antarctic Cup map yet.

Then, in the next moment, Chu Tingwu “crashed” on camera—or more accurately, she’d been speeding downhill when she nearly collided with No. 6 ahead of her. At the last second, she twisted midair to avoid the impact.

But the evasion sent her tumbling violently across the snow.

No. 6 soared right over her. It was clear he wanted to stop and check on her, but as a competitor, he couldn’t interfere. Besides, the crew would handle it… right?

Except Chu Tingwu, who by all logic should’ve been nursing fractures, was already back on her feet.

No. 6 barely had time to process it before she shot past him, showing zero signs of injury—

Meanwhile, on day three of the race, the organizers announced:

Contestant No. 17 has withdrawn due to injury.

The roster was down to eighteen.

[…What about Chu Tingwu?]

[Someone stop her from skiing injured!]

[If she were injured enough to quit, she’d have done it an hour ago!]

True. If anything serious had happened, the system would’ve flagged it first.

And it had. During the near-collision, Chu Tingwu had bent her body in a way that minimized damage—like a cat twisting midair to land on its feet. The gear prevented a perfect landing, but it spared her worse harm.

So, just like that first night run, she’d sprained her wrist.

But within roughly five minutes, the system detected the sprain had vanished entirely. No treatment, no lingering effects—just seamless healing. Even the livestream audience missed it, assuming she’d walked away unscathed.

[Instinct Lv. 2]: Keen intuition allows you to thrive in the wild, effortlessly pinpointing dangers and hidden environmental cues. Grants formidable combat instincts without training.

[Perfect Control Lv. 2]: Having mastered your physique, you can consciously alter hidden bodily metrics, perceiving the world through a sharper, more intricate lens.

Your [Genetic Heritage Lv. 1] has upgraded to [Genetic Heritage Lv. 2].

You’ve unlocked all latent genetic knowledge. Entering a phase of exponential growth: injury recovery accelerates, senses sharpen further, and…

Chu Tingwu ignored the prompts.

She only noticed the subtle shifts—the world resolving into clearer focus, her skis responding like extensions of her body.

The faintest air currents, distant scents, vibrations underfoot, magnetic fields, even the invisible dance of ultraviolet light… She sensed them now, understood their influence, yet remained untouched by them.

Previously, with every upgrade, she would be troubled by her overly acute senses—as if during the upgrade, certain switches in her body were forcibly flipped open. She had to fumble around in an empty room to turn them off, memorizing their positions so she could flip them back on when needed. But now, she no longer needed to shut those switches off, because the room itself had shattered in that moment, and water had merged into water.

Chu Tingwu: "So this is how it feels..."

So this was how the world looked in a cat's eyes.

Though the system had always treated her as a cat, her entire being evolving toward feline traits—even her abilities had long surpassed those of an ordinary cat—Chu Tingwu had never, outside of dreams, fully released the restraints she placed on herself.

The system had talked about buying her a massive amusement park like Disney, giving its cat a cat tree... It had nagged her from the age of 15 to 19, and Chu Tingwu had always assumed it was just the system being traumatized by Disney’s prices, turning it into an obsession.

But now she realized—

It was because she had never truly embraced being a cat.

The system was worried about her.

"Sigh," Chu Tingwu exhaled, "because Phoenix is an idiot."

She didn’t say it aloud, and the system in her mind didn’t respond—no one else could hear it, but the system would definitely know. So—

It was probably tossing and turning in the middle of the night, puzzling over: Where exactly had it been stupid?

Because everything had started with the system’s mistake. A super-system from light-years away had bound itself to an ordinary human like her, yet instead of guiding her toward so-called "human success," it had made the most fundamental error.

How had it managed to mistake a living human for a cat?

In the temporary camp, Louise, who was taking oxygen, suddenly looked up—she could hear the sound of skiing.

The skis approached from the distance, and even without seeing them, she could imagine the technique the skier was using, their current posture. As her mind stirred to life, the exhaustion and pain from her illness faded away in that moment, making her want to step onto the skis again.

But then she saw the staff nearby and remembered—she had already withdrawn. Her body wasn’t suited for long-distance ski competitions, but she didn’t regret coming here.

Because this was a vast and free land. When she first set foot on the Antarctic continent, she had even wanted to kneel and kiss the snow.

A staff member passed by, lifting the curtain, and Louise caught only a glimpse of a tiny figure retreating into the distance.

She didn’t know which competitor it was, but in her heart, she silently wished—

May you find more joy in this sport, and may you always see such beautiful sights.

-

On the fifth day of the race, viewers who habitually opened the live stream paused in surprise.

The homepage feed usually followed the perspective of the current frontrunner. Over the past few days, they’d watched competitors No. 1 and No. 2, with occasional appearances from No. 4, as each adjusted their rest schedules and routes, shifting rankings. But now, the skier on screen wore a uniform marked with a bold "19."

By the fifth day, Chu Tingwu had covered 1,674 kilometers, maintaining the same average speed as during the Texas endurance race. With nearly two fewer hours of rest per day than the others, she had surged from the very last position to first place—despite starting nine hours later than the original leader.

On the sixth day, the number of participants dropped from nineteen to twelve—some withdrew knowing their limits, others fell ill and had to quit, two suffered mental breakdowns and left for recovery, and three were injured (two lightly, one severely with fractures).

On the seventh day, exhausted and unfocused, two competitors collided, and another fell and injured themselves. The remaining challengers for the Antarctic long-distance ski dropped from twelve to nine.

On the eighth day, the audience heard Chu Tingwu singing.

By this stage, everyone had increased their rest time—long-distance skiing in Antarctica drained not just the body but the mind.

Even Chu Tingwu had sustained a few injuries (though viewers couldn’t tell), and the others hadn’t escaped unscathed either.

But one thing was clear—

Chu Tingwu seemed to be in the best spirits.

Early on, with barely any sleep, she had been like a kitten discovering a new toy, playing with a stuffed mouse all day, circling table legs like a perpetual motion machine.

Later, though her rest periods lengthened, she still recovered more efficiently than the others. While the rest collapsed in exhaustion, Chu Tingwu would recharge in two hours and spring back into action, launching herself upright like a catapult upon waking.

The most obvious difference was in their behavior—most competitors had started talking to the camera early on, even if no one responded, just to keep from going mad in the silence.

But from Chu Tingwu, the audience mostly heard laughter.

She’d laugh after pulling off a dangerous but dazzling move, or after overtaking someone with a clever detour, as if this grueling journey, though exhausting, still held endless fascination for her—like she was seeing the world anew, finding delight in even the smallest details.

So when Chu Tingwu suddenly began singing, mimicking the others who used it to motivate themselves, the viewers were stunned.

Tuning into her feed, they realized she wasn’t exactly singing—she was humming.

It sounded like another creature’s language, not the famous "cat-speak" she was known for. She seemed to be emitting a sound, but the latter half of its frequency was beyond human hearing. It felt experimental—after a few attempts, she fell silent again.

Yet the audience couldn’t shake the feeling that, in those brief moments, Chu Tingwu had glimpsed—or heard—another world. She had pushed open the door first.

But they weren’t disheartened. They had a hunch: once she stepped through, she’d hold the door open wider.

She would turn back and share everything she saw.

Through human tools, through better tools—through words, through sound, through VR, through holograms.

And no one would ever guess that all of this had started because—

A certain system did not bring into this world a child destined to reach the "pinnacle of life" in the human world.

It brought a cat instead.

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Chu Tingwu saw the pillars marking the finish line on either side, as well as the crowd waiting ahead.

There were reporters, staff members, referees and commentators barely containing their excitement, researchers from Riley Station—some of whom Chu Tingwu had met before—and her friends and family. Shao Lingwu held a tablet, on which a cat's face was displayed.

Sanwuwu wasn’t suited for Antarctica, so Teacher Zhang had been tasked with holding the cat while video-calling Chu Tingwu, though his posture looked rather silly.

She crossed the finish line.

For a moment, silence settled around her. But Chu Tingwu could hear the calls of penguins, the sound of whales surfacing beneath the broken ice to breathe, their tails slapping against the water, sending ripples and noise through the air.

Only then did she realize she had tuned out the voices of the people around her.

Kneeling on the ground, exhaustion finally caught up with her, the adrenaline wearing off. Reporters, medical staff, and loved ones approached… yet the world remained quiet.

Then, Chu Tingwu heard a strange sound—like the purring of a big cat lying beside her. Hypnotic, like ASMR, yet oddly familiar.

…It was the system playing a sound for her.

On the first day they met, despite being tired and drowsy, Chu Tingwu hadn’t wanted to listen to the foolish system’s rambling. So, amid the scent of incense, she closed her eyes and pretended to nap. The system had said something, but she didn’t listen, so it played a soothing background noise instead.

It knew she was exhausted. She didn’t trust it, and she resisted everything it brought into her life.

But there was time. They would be together for a long, long while, until the very end of life.

No need to rush.

And nothing was worth—

Hm? Something flickered across the system’s screen in front of her.

The system hadn’t spoken, yet Chu Tingwu inexplicably *felt* its excitement.

She could swear on her Lv2 intuition skill.

So she abruptly sat up straight, startling Shao Lingwu, who had been pretending to be a wooden post for her to lean against.

Chu Tingwu: "Phoenix?"

She was curious now—she couldn’t sleep!

The system: "…"

It believed it shouldn’t disturb the young one’s rest, but perhaps it was time for her to know—

The Di○ey Company had extended an olive branch, expressing interest in producing a new animated film with Chu Tingwu as the protagonist’s inspiration.

The system: "They’ve conceded!"

Chu Tingwu: Wait, what exactly did you *do* to them…?

The system: "With the movie already in the works, how far can buying Di○eyland be?"

Chu Tingwu: Sounds *very* far!

The system: "What kind of image do you want? I told them you’re a cat, but they insisted they already knew you had that online persona—they wanted to ‘try something groundbreaking.’ But you *are* a cat! I said ‘human-cat’ is still a cat, and they replied, ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea…’"

Chu Tingwu: Goodnight.

The system would probably never realize its mistake.

Even if it had made a mistake, it still raised a cat—one who might not have taken the conventional path, but was happy all the same.

Meow!

—End of Main Story—