The System Mistook Me for a Cat-Chapter 225

Xia Guang had just gotten off work when she saw the message from her cousin, unexpectedly asking about the "Antarctic Cup."

Though Xia Guang was a correspondent for the sports channel, her family wasn’t particularly interested in athletics. Her parents had their own careers, and in her memory, her cousin was very much a "real-life enjoyer"—not into gaming, TV shows, or novels, but someone who saved up money to travel, especially fond of road trips.

That her cousin would suddenly take an interest in such a niche extreme sport was something Xia Guang hadn’t anticipated.

Xia Guang replied: "The Antarctic Cup doesn’t start until April. Did you see some promotion about it?"

Her cousin’s voice crackled over the phone: "It’s a cruise discount! I checked—the company sponsoring the competition seems to have partnered with a cruise line. They’re running a lottery for Antarctic travel tickets, spread over four months!"

It was currently December. From January to April, 100 winners would be drawn each month. The prerequisites included sharing promotional posts, completing a basic quiz about Antarctica, and answering questions related to "skiing."

Her cousin was stumped by the latter and, after some digging, discovered that Xia Guang had once interviewed Chu Tingwu—hence the call for advice.

Xia Guang was surprised. "This marketing push is…"

Wu Voice Group often gave her the impression that they couldn’t be bothered to chase profits. She knew, of course, that the company’s cash flow was healthy, bolstered by national support and core technological advantages, so bankruptcy wasn’t a concern.

But the deeper she looked, the more she noticed how the company indulged in seemingly "wasteful, CEO-pleasing" decisions. Having met the CEO in person, Xia Guang doubted these moves came from Chu Tingwu herself.

If it were up to Chu Tingwu, promoting the event would’ve likely meant a livestream or a charity drive at most.

After answering her cousin’s questions, Xia Guang scrolled through her social feed. Though it wasn’t flooded, she noticed many friends—who’d never shown interest in extreme sports—sharing related posts. And judging by their varied captions, they’d each stumbled upon the promotion through different channels.

Some had discovered it while buying electronics, where sharing the campaign earned them discount coupons.

Others found it through video games, where answering quiz questions unlocked in-game rewards like titles or skins.

A few had spotted it while topping up their streaming service VIP memberships—following the event granted them free trial extensions. A small effort for a freebie.

One friend even posted a photo: their usual cat food brand now featured promotional packaging, with a chubby kitten in a ski suit, mid-descent down a snowy peak.

Skiing, though high-barrier in practice, was easy to appreciate—just not always accessible, given the scarcity of nearby slopes, which deterred many potential enthusiasts.

"But now," Xia Guang mused, "there are full-dive VR pods."

Thanks to government subsidies, most financially independent young people in the country saved up to buy one. Meanwhile, in America, only select high-end hotels offered them—with strict access controls.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

She opened the New Plum app, skimming the trending headlines… and her heart skipped a beat.

She remembered interviewing Chu Tingwu, who’d once joked that she must love gaming, given how her company had revolutionized play and live streaming.

Chu Tingwu had shaken her head then:

"I’m not actually obsessed with games. I only play when my company releases something new, or when friends drag me into a match."

Xia Guang had nodded in understanding. "So real life is fulfilling enough that virtual worlds don’t hold as much appeal?"

Chu Tingwu paused. "Well…"

"No," she finally said, smiling. "It’s because I can already do in real life what most games only simulate. That’s why they don’t grip me as much."

In truth, she was just an average gamer.

Except in reality, she could scale walls and leap rooftops—better than any in-game character.

Xia Guang whispered, "She really did it…"

From VR live streams to semi-immersive gaming, price cuts to broaden accessibility, and multi-pronged marketing—ordinary people could now experience the thrill of extreme sports digitally, whether or not they ever tried them in real life. At the very least, it gave them a starting point.

This might be the golden age of extreme sports.

And the one leading the charge seemed unaware—whether by her own design or with others’ help, change unfolded steadily around her.

The world was transforming, methodically and surely.

The thought alone filled Xia Guang with exhilaration.

—

Coach Wen Su was exhilarated too.

As the newly appointed head coach of China’s alpine skiing national team, he suspected his role was temporary—his Polish predecessor had recently left, and he’d likely just fill the gap.

Still, he was determined to scout talent. Compared to other, more visually appealing skiing disciplines, alpine skiing remained niche. But over the past few months, after Chu Tingwu shattered the downhill record, it had surged into public consciousness.

Coach Wen immediately reached out to her.

He’d studied every skiing clip of hers beforehand, only to be struck with dismay: Chu Tingwu had first made waves in sports at 15, yet her formative years lacked professional training—her record-breaking run was pure, raw talent.

When they spoke, Chu Tingwu admitted her edge lay in her unique physical gifts and some "professional" training (Coach Wen doubted that) in Antarctica. Most crucially, she had no plans to join the national team.

Coach Wen sighed.

Her snowboarding skills were remarkable, and her endurance runs kept breaking records—yet she wasn’t interested in specializing in winter sports, rock climbing, or skateboarding either.

Her reason? "I want to try a bit of everything."

Coach Wen pressed: "Don’t you want Olympic gold?"

For your country, or yourself? At just 18, she had decades ahead—many winter athletes competed well into their forties. With proper training, she could amass world titles and push her limits further.

He wasn’t just chasing a prodigy to bolster his resume; he genuinely feared she’d regret it years later, having turned away from this grueling yet glorious path.

…Especially since she’d refused so swiftly.

Wouldn’t she reconsider?

He couldn’t even take the "parental approach" to persuade her because he had discovered—this child had been acting as her own guardian for years. The only adult with any real authority in her life wasn’t biologically related, making any advice from them unofficial at best.

Chu Tingwu: "Competition means defeating your opponents under rules set by others. But the kind of competition I want is defeating myself under rules I set."

Coach Wen sensed her resolve but also had a vague feeling that Chu Tingwu’s refusal might simply be because the events he mentioned didn’t strike her as "exciting or fun enough." These extreme sports types—sigh.

Still, Chu Tingwu surprised him by suggesting he try using games to scout talent.

Previously, they’d recruited athletes through specialized institutions, internal recommendations, family-supported training, or athletes proactively seeking out the national team. No matter the method, the channels were relatively narrow.

But *In Progress* was different. This deceptively simple-named game now boasted a massive player base, with its skiing rhythm game often hitting six-digit concurrent users. By picking candidates from the top of the leaderboard, they might miss some geniuses who didn’t adapt to this format, but they’d undoubtedly uncover plenty of surprises.

After her competition, Chu Tingwu took a break to prepare for her December trip to Antarctica. Meanwhile, Coach Wen barely rested after the game’s launch—mobilizing the entire coaching staff to review footage, contact players, evaluate, and deliberate.

Eventually, Chu Tingwu helped by creating an in-game event where players could upload videos and receive likes, with rankings based on engagement. It lightened the workload slightly.

Though he hadn’t secured her participation, Coach Wen didn’t seem to have truly given up. He extended another olive branch, asking if she’d consider… online skill training.

Chu Tingwu couldn’t make it to the national team for in-person coaching, but that didn’t stop them from providing remote training—correcting her form digitally and strategizing for competitions.

Notably, one of the invited athletes was an Olympic gold medalist from the national team’s alpine skiing squad. Due to scheduling conflicts, she’d declined the Antarctic Cup invitation.

But after her own training sessions, she still found time to log into the game and challenge Chu Tingwu to a few rounds.

Before leaving home, Chu Tingwu played one last game, carrying the blessings of friends and family—and the family’s system, aka *the cat*—as she boarded the plane to Antarctica.

Her journey began at Robuina Port, where she’d meet the other competitors before boarding a ship, then a vehicle, joining them for a four-month "environmental adaptation" period.

…And daily online classes.

The twenty athletes hailed from nearly as many countries, but most were seasoned international competitors who could communicate basics even without translators. Some were even multilingual.

Given their physiques, altitude sickness shouldn’t have been an issue. But Antarctica’s unique geography and climate demanded caution, so the group took twice as long as Chu Tingwu’s previous trip to reach Dragon Lake Station—just to ensure everyone acclimated properly.

And yet, spirits were high.

Merris, the British competitor who’d grown close to Chu Tingwu, whispered, "I’ve skied under the Arctic auroras before. Now I’ll do the same in Antarctica, with all of you beside me. Just thinking about it makes me so happy."

Perhaps because extreme sports lack rigid scoring brackets, the athletes cared more about surpassing their personal bests, making the atmosphere far more harmonious than traditional competitions.

Chu Tingwu also reunited with Rex, Louise, and others. She took the opportunity to share Shao Lingwu’s rearranged version of a song with Rex—

It was a folk tune from Rex’s homeland, now reorchestrated with new instruments, giving it a more powerful sound.

Rex adored it. Even if he still sang off-key.

But since he and Chu Tingwu weren’t in the same vehicle, the cat simply shut her ears.

By the time Chu Tingwu arrived at Dragon Lake Station, it was already January of the new year.

Her nineteenth birthday passed quietly—or not so quietly, given the vehicle’s cramped quarters.

Though few fellow Chinese travelers were aboard, coincidentally, those who were happened to be her employees. With unstable internet preventing her from attending Wu Voice Group’s New Year gala remotely, Chu Tingwu compensated by handing out red packets in person on Antarctic soil.

Patting each on the shoulder or head, she intoned solemnly, "Let’s strive together."

When they finally reached Dragon Lake Station, the researchers had already finished their homemade dumplings.

Returning to Antarctica after a year, Chu Tingwu felt an unexpected calm.

The improved internet meant she could stream lectures without pre-downloading. But when she checked in with loved ones, their relief was laced with dread—

Last year, she’d come for research; skiing was just a pastime.

This year, she was here to ski—from Dragon Lake Station all the way to Riley Station. The risks had multiplied.

…They’d mentally prepared for her to return on a stretcher, bones fractured.

Chu Tingwu: "Does it *have* to be a broken leg?"

Shao Lingwu summarized everyone’s thoughts: "They figure if it’s just your arms, you’d keep skiing anyway. Only a leg injury would stop you."

…Unless she tried skiing on her hands?

Seeing the logic, Chu Tingwu began practicing the next day—mastering long-distance skiing without poles, relying solely on her skis.

Her training didn’t stand out. Others were practicing risky maneuvers too, including one who *did* fracture a wrist. But with three months to recover and ample medical support, no one withdrew.

By February, Chu Tingwu started missing Three-Five-Five.

Antarctica’s winter was setting in.

—

Shao Lingwu lay sandwiched between Shikuai on his left and Three-Five-Five on his right.

A plump shorthair and a… majestically fluffy tortoiseshell. The crowding left him sweating until he finally wriggled free to crack open a window.

Outside, the air held a chill—nothing like Antarctica, though. Early spring blooms dotted the gray low walls in pale pink clusters.

Chu Tingwu called daily. Two days prior, Shao Lingwu mentioned a new "indoor cat playground" near campus and volunteered to take the duo.

Three-Five-Five sported a lightweight vest labeled "Undercover," while the blissfully illiterate Shikuai licked his paw, unaware his green vest read "Trainee."

However, after visiting the amusement park today, the two cats and their human were thoroughly disappointed. They realized that the so-called "cat amusement park" was nothing but false advertising—just a large, open floor in a shopping mall filled with haphazardly arranged cat towers. Upon closer inspection, the setup was chaotic, with a few pet cats perched listlessly on the structures, showing no desire to climb. Meanwhile, cats who genuinely wanted to sprint and play had no room to move.

Shao Lingwu also noticed that Three-Five-Five seemed in low spirits.

Perhaps she missed Chu Tingwu, or perhaps it was because she wasn't getting enough exercise.

Lately, she'd even been orchestrating brawls between the neighborhood cats and the campus strays from the school next door… Incidentally, that school was the same one where they’d once taken their biology Olympiad. Because of this, Shao Lingwu would discreetly crank his electric tricycle to top speed whenever he passed by.

After discussing it with Chu Tingwu, he took the mother cat to see Coach Wen.

Coach Wen: He had indeed been considering inviting Chu Tingwu to become an assistant coach…

But before he could even extend the offer, why was a cat showing up first?

He hadn’t actually voiced this thought aloud.

Chu Tingwu had no interest in joining the national team or being constrained by rigid training schedules. She refused to let others dictate her regimen. Yet, after discovering her talent through gaming and monitoring her training data daily, Coach Wen couldn’t suppress his growing ambition—

Winter sports athletes have impressively long competitive lifespans.

So, why not try inviting Chu Tingwu to become a "coach"?

He was drawn to her natural, untamed skill and hoped that this role would ensure she maintained her condition for winter sports, even while indulging in other extreme activities.

That way, if she ever regretted her choices a decade later, she could still return to the international stage.

Coach Wen: Persistent longing.

But it was still too early for all this.

Her reputation was solid, but her clout wasn’t enough. If she didn’t want to compete internationally, she’d have to defeat every elite, championship-winning athlete in extreme sports—

She needed to cement her status through sheer ability.

And she absolutely had the skill to do so. Now, a high-stakes competition loomed on the horizon.

…Along with a fluffy long-haired cat right in front of him.

Coach Wen: *Ahem.*

What was wrong with a promising athlete owning a cat? Perfectly normal.

Besides, this cat… could actually ski.

Though Three-Five-Five didn’t use traditional skis, she mastered the art of balancing on a snowboard and propelling it forward by running in just one day.

Coach Wen: "…"

If his new trainees couldn’t outperform a cat, his reputation was finished.

---

February. Winter descended on Antarctica.

The athletes began familiarizing themselves with the racecourse in segments. Drones soared over the icy continent, scanning and mapping the route. The team studied projections, debated strategies, and tested conditions—almost like reliving their days at Cash Snow Mountain.

By March, they’d moved on to mastering competition-specific gestures, memorizing rules, and conducting full trial runs.

The broadcast format was finally confirmed: the event would be streamed with a one-hour delay due to Antarctica’s unstable internet.

Each athlete would wear a follow-cam, and with staggered starts spaced 30 minutes apart based on qualification rankings, the race covered over 2,000 kilometers.

Every 150 kilometers, rest stops offered supplies and medical aid. Injuries could lead to withdrawal, though some might opt for makeshift treatment and continue.

—Long-distance skiing wasn’t survivalism, so the challenge seemed manageable at first glance. But as exhaustion and mental strain mounted, more would likely drop out.

By late March, Sports Channel secured streaming rights, while China Documentary Channel aired a prelude to the *Antarctic Cup*—a behind-the-scenes look at the logistical hurdles overcome to make the event possible.

Post-documentary, a second film highlighted the athletes’ training, teamwork, and adaptation to Antarctica.

…It played like an unscripted reality show, minus celebrities.

Well, except for Chu Tingwu. Her fanbase dwarfed many minor celebrities’, yet she wasn’t a social media star—she was competing on the entrepreneurial track (?).

Fans starved for content beyond Three-Five-Five’s livestreams devoured the documentaries.

The documentary channel even secured rights to a third installment, chronicling the Cup’s conclusion.

But Chu Tingwu had no bandwidth for such thoughts.

Early April. Auroras rippled across the sky.

She gazed up briefly, meowed twice, and retreated indoors.

Two days prior, the 20th qualifier suffered a concussion during training and withdrew.

Had this happened two months earlier, a replacement could’ve been arranged. But with no time left for acclimatization, the field shrank to 19.

They would battle over 2,000 kilometers, testing endurance, willpower, technique—and a dash of luck.

Mid-April. Three hours to race start.

Tension hummed in the base. A screen looped rules and reminders, while back in China, audiences—already bombarded with hype—flooded the livestream early.

Sports ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‍Channel’s stream, typically a hodgepodge of random events, was dedicating full coverage to the race. For now, it aired documentaries and ads.

An hour later, viewers finally saw the first athlete’s delayed broadcast.

[*Checked the rules. At this rate, I could nap and still miss Chu’s start.*]

[*Nearly 10 hours to wait (shocked!) (deeply disappointed) (storms off)*]

[I’m a bit worried about Chu Chu. We only have to wait ten hours, but she’s stuck waiting ten hours under the weight of anxiety and tension, the last one to set off… Even though each contestant’s time is counted separately, just idling like this before the competition must mess with performance, right?]

Chu Tingwu didn’t think so.

When speculating about her state, the audience always forgot one crucial detail: she wasn’t just a competitor—she was also the event organizer’s top boss.

Contestants in the waiting area weren’t allowed to watch live feeds of others’ performances, so internet access was restricted. But food, drinks, fitness equipment, leisure items, and even training spaces were all freely available.

After some digging, viewers actually found a split-screen feature in the livestream. Not only could they check the real-time status and location of competing skiers, but they could also peek at what the others still waiting were up to.

Some realized this might also be proof that Chu Tingwu wasn’t leveraging her position for special treatment… right?

Huh?

The four lowest-ranked contestants were playing cards on camera.

That alone wouldn’t have been unusual, but the atmosphere in Chu Tingwu’s livestream felt oddly serene—almost *too* serene. And her card game stats were… unnervingly terrifying.

A mountain of chips towered in front of her, while the other three players had gone glassy-eyed, their hands moving mechanically as they drew cards.

Viewers: “……”

Was their contestant from Hua Nation planning to eliminate a few rivals *before* the competition even started?

Staff who caught the surveillance footage: “……”

Everyone was being livestreamed to ensure fairness, to prove that the boss’s results—whatever they might be—were earned by her own skill. But *this*? This was just luck at cards!

---

Nine hours later, Chu Tingwu geared up and stood at the starting line.

The drone following her hovered diagonally above. The system had muted itself, but when she looked up, the drone dipped slightly lower—as if nodding in acknowledgment.

A faint smile crossed her lips as she felt the Antarctic chill seep through her gear. Her gaze fixed on the distance ahead—

In her mind, the scenes from dream training flashed: the route she’d attempted countless times but never completed; the segmented practice runs where no one had finished the full course; and the complex, quietly proud expression of her mentor, Mo Qiao, when she returned to Dragon Lake Station, all overlapping like a single frame.

She had come, as promised.

The race began!

No competitors beside her, no one behind—she was the last to set off, and now… the race began!

She pushed forward, skis cutting downward. At the same moment, in the semi-holographic game *In Progress*, the newly unlocked “Antarctica” map—previously view-only—activated. Players couldn’t approach, but in the distance, a fully geared skier launched into motion.

Simultaneously, the AR projection at the southern expanse of Shanwan Ranch *moved*. Flecks of light formed distant snow-capped peaks and auroras streaking the sky. Beneath them, the lone skier who had been waiting atop the virtual summit finally took off.

At the same time, *On the Ranch* aired a new episode. The cat guides on their Antarctic team-building trip were cozied up by the fire when suddenly, pairs of feline eyes pressed against the window. The snowstorm had cleared, and outside, an unfamiliar yet faintly recognizable cat on twin skis shot past—nothing but a shrinking silhouette racing down the mountain.

The cats huddled together, watching that tiny dot in the blizzard, murmuring:

“We’ve definitely met her before.”

“Should we follow?”

“Hurry! Let’s catch up!”

“If you’re cold, we can form a bundle—I’ll be the head, you take the tail!”

“—No way, meow!”

Chu Tingwu spread her arms.

For a heartbeat, she was airborne—seeming to plummet into the snow—but her skis carved deep into the powder, twin blades splitting the earth, leaving behind cuts as precise as a master’s engraving.

Beside her tracks, countless others marked the paths of those who had come before.

But she would catch up.

Even if she started last.

She would catch up.