The System Mistook Me for a Cat

The suggestion to donate a building naturally came from the system.

After all, Chu Tingwu would be attending school for four years, and it wouldn’t do for her to live in inconvenient conditions… Moreover, after some research, the system found that the dormitory facilities were somewhat outdated, and getting to the teaching buildings wasn’t very convenient either. So, why not just rebuild them?

Chu Tingwu finalized her school choice, and the second round of testing slots for *Cats Can’t Learn* was also announced.

While it was said that 100,000 slots would be released, the actual number was higher. Two slots were reserved for company employees, and Chu Tingwu also set aside slots for her friends and family—she replied to messages in the family group chat, adding many relatives she hadn’t met yet, including elders and younger members. Finally, she asked the system:

“Aren’t you going to play?”

The system: “?”

Although the system felt it didn’t need to, it was still deeply moved: “You can give my slot to Three-Five-Five…”

Ah, the child has grown up, caring so much for it! But if it were to play the game, it would dominate—after all, as a system, how could there be any “questions” it couldn’t solve?

Chu Tingwu: “No, there’s no need to give it up.”

First of all, how would a cat even register? And as the boss, she certainly wasn’t short on extra slots.

Chu Tingwu simply thought: “Even though everyone says the game is fun, I want to create something that you’d find fun too.”

The system: “…Huh?”

By the time Chu Tingwu was on a plane to Ji Province, the system was still “pondering” this question.

Fun?

Of course, the child’s game was fun. All the data proved it, and the system had collected plenty of praise online and feedback in real life… But could it truly experience the joy of the game? What it found interesting was usually—

The system: “I find raising you quite fun already.”

It wasn’t just “fun,” nor was it a game. It was because of the child’s existence that it looked forward to each new day.

And when the child said she wanted it to experience the joy of the game, the system, though it felt this was impossible—all the data suggested it was meaningless and wouldn’t affect the child-rearing plan—still felt as if every line of its code was dancing. Well, maybe it should hack into a few national firewalls to cool off.

After making a round on the dark web, leaving behind urban legend-like horror stories, the system finally accepted Chu Tingwu’s suggestion. Even if there was no fun in it, registering an account wouldn’t hurt.

Since the system could solve every question correctly, which would be unfair to other players, it could just intentionally get every question wrong.

However, during the account registration, Chu Tingwu noticed that the system first created a pink-purple cat—clearly modeled after her sitting on a robot vacuum—then deleted it and started crafting a black-and-white cat with a somewhat peculiar appearance.

Chu Tingwu: “?”

She had thought the system was planning to raise a cat version of her in the game. Why did it give up?

The system: “Because I already have you.”

Even if the game avatar was virtual, it didn’t want a program to replace the child, giving her the illusion that she could be replaced or lose attention.

Finally, when the system finished creating the cat avatar, Chu Tingwu stared at the “cat” with its black mouth, wing-like gradient patterns on its sides, and white tail, its feet resembling boots. After a moment of silence, she said: “…A seagull?”

The system had created a cat version of a seagull. Admittedly, it looked quite good, though it would be hard to find such a cat in real life.

It was still missing the vibe of the seagull drone, and as for the glowing patterns and translucent skin effects that other players had—those would require leveling up, grinding for materials, and participating in events to unlock. The system wasn’t planning to cheat, so if it wanted those, it would have to grind.

As she lay on the plane, before falling asleep, Chu Tingwu wondered: For the sake of fairness, the system would intentionally get questions wrong. How would it ever earn event rewards?

---

The entire online world was buzzing with excitement over the recently released AR game.

The Stellar Cloud Foundation was currently focused on developing around Shannan Province, so among the thirty selected cities, aside from a few major ones, most were located near Shannan Province, including places like Sang City and Chewan City, which Chu Tingwu had visited before.

However, this uneven distribution left some second-round test applicants dissatisfied.

Unlike the closed beta, there were no IP restrictions for the second round, so the player distribution was relatively even, including fans of Chu Tingwu from across the country.

During registration, players could choose which city to join, and after the third round of testing opened, they could freely transfer cities once.

After that, they’d have to purchase a city transfer pass.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

…This was very much in line with typical game mechanics.

Thus, the slightly disgruntled players were quickly appeased and decided to temporarily join a city to start playing.

But soon, some players noticed:

“Jing City is full!”

It’s the capital, after all. If they couldn’t settle there in real life, settling there in the game would be a nice consolation. But to their shock, even in the game, there were restrictions on settling in the capital.

They probably hadn’t read the game announcement—

The second round of testing would last longer than the closed beta, and to ensure fairness, each city had a population cap of 4,000 players.

Otherwise, some cities might end up with tens of thousands of players, while others might only have a few hundred.

Choosing a city during registration was a race against time. However, once the game officially launched, with a larger player base and more cities to choose from, having tens of thousands of players in one city wouldn’t affect fairness… The restrictions would loosen, simply to prevent everyone from crowding into a single city.

Players who couldn’t get into the famous big cities had to settle for lesser-known ones or places they’d visited on vacation. Of course, the system informed Chu Tingwu that locals from the thirty cities mostly wouldn’t choose cities outside their region, even major ones like Sea City.

At times like these, regional pride was strong, and most players from the same province would choose cities within their province.

When Chu Tingwu got off the plane, she opened her phone, verified her Fallen Phoenix City account, and added the system as a friend.

Fallen Phoenix City filled up surprisingly quickly, ranking in the upper-middle tier. In the end, ten cities reached their 4,000-player cap, while the remaining 60,000 players were distributed somewhat unevenly across the other twenty cities.

Chu Tingwu’s previous ID had been somewhat famous, and she’d casually chosen a default tortoiseshell cat avatar. But for this non-wipe test, she switched to a pink-purple kitten.

After adding the system as a friend, she noticed its ID was the straightforward “Human-Cat Caretaker.”

Through the friend interface, she also saw that the system had already lost two matches. She was about to say something… but her cousin arrived to pick her up, so she went to chat with her relatives instead.

---

Ji Wen felt something was off.

After successfully securing a second-round testing slot, he immediately completed his registration and rushed out to challenge others.

AR itself was already fun, and he loved the feeling of public battles. As a social butterfly, he didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed whether he won or lost—it didn’t matter, everyone loses sometimes.

However, the arena in the city center was already occupied, so Ji Wen stood by and watched for a while.

He was from Heqi City in Ji Province, and luckily, Heqi City was on the second-round testing list. Unlike the intense promotional period of the closed beta, Wusheng Company had rented four arenas in high-traffic locations.

Ji Wen noticed that his opponent’s ID was “Human-Cat Caretaker,” with a main cat named “Seagull,” a black-and-white cat. However, the player wasn’t physically present and was remotely controlling the match.

And they lost.

This wasn’t unusual, but Ji Wen had only caught the tail end of the match. The opponent hadn’t answered several questions correctly but still struggled on before finally conceding.

Just bad luck, perhaps.

The player who had won stood still for a moment before leaving the ring area.

Ji Wen: "Not continuing?"

Then he’s going to step up!

He eagerly walked over. At this moment, if he didn’t actively choose to withdraw, he could continue challenging the reigning champion.

Since the winner had forfeited the champion title, the defeated caretaker was still standing on the stage with their seagull.

Ji Wen thought the opponent might be a not-so-bright elementary school student and didn’t want to bully a kid. But seeing that they weren’t backing down, he decided not to hold back—

He chose to join the match!

[Match successful]

Oh!

The feel! The projection! This sensation! It’s a virtual projection, so tasty… no, it’s free!

He’s here!

Ji Wen, brimming with confidence, started answering questions and controlling his character according to the prompts. Passersby stopped to watch, and Ji Wen felt he was even performing exceptionally well. Meanwhile, his opponent consistently chose the wrong answer after the countdown ended.

Ji Wen: "..."

Maybe you should just guess randomly!

For beginners, most questions are multiple-choice. Even if you guess randomly, you shouldn’t get every single one wrong!

He felt a bit of pity, but soon his sympathy vanished—because he started getting questions wrong too.

This was normal. Experienced players on the forum had mentioned that the system gives a few easy questions at the start to help you get used to it. Later, as it gauges your skill level, the difficulty ramps up.

The opponent was still getting things wrong, but Ji Wen noticed that his cat was slowly losing health!

It seemed the opponent had stronger precision in controlling their character, almost as if they were specialized in combat. Despite failing to answer questions, they were great at making their cat engage in close combat. The tiny kitten bit the other kitten’s ear while dodging attacks…

Ji Wen: "But this is a quiz game!"

He was almost cracking up. Playing a traditional RPG-style combat strategy in a quiz game… What’s the difference between this and clearing a dungeon without learning any magic, relying purely on melee skills?

Fortunately, Ji Wen didn’t lose.

At the last moment, he luckily answered two questions correctly and managed to turn the tide with a flashy effect.

But he couldn’t help feeling awkward… Facing an opponent who hadn’t answered a single question correctly, he had almost lost. Even he felt embarrassed.

Recalling the previous player’s performance, he turned around with a sudden realization—

The player made eye contact with him and nodded silently.

You too… So you get it now… Yes, Ji Wen thought tearfully, I understand.

He decided to stay and see if there would be another unlucky victim.

The challenger in the main city who named their cat "Seagull" quickly became a new urban legend on the local forum.

No one knew their exact score, but everyone had beaten them.

There was no way to check their stats unless you were on the leaderboard or added them as a friend, but a player who hadn’t won a single match couldn’t appear on the leaderboard.

Some people were so curious about the opponent’s score that they even considered losing on purpose, but none of them managed to encounter the "Cat Caretaker."

Two days later, the caretaker finally appeared on the leaderboard, and unsurprisingly, they were in last place.

The player who accidentally lost uploaded a video to the city discussion board. No words were needed—everyone in the comments came to offer their condolences.

So there really are unlucky souls who get beaten to death by random punches.

Haha.

The unlucky one: "..."

Screw you.

The unlucky one couldn’t help but say, "Maybe this is a pro player smurfing?"

It’s normal to get questions wrong, and it’s normal to not know the answers, but getting every single question wrong? That probably means they knew the answers to all of them! So far, the caretaker’s correct answer rate was still 0%!

They were even scarier than the current national leaderboard topper, who had a 77% correct answer rate!

Maybe one day, the pro player would stage a dramatic comeback and show everyone how to go from 0% to 100%.

Chu Tingwu also noticed that the system had entered the rankings. As a friend, she could check the data anytime, so she saw that one win.

Chu Tingwu: "?"

The system had already gone easy on them, and someone still managed to lose?

Did you dive headfirst into the Pacific Ocean and choose to drown yourself?

The unlucky one who got beaten to death by random punches: "Achoo—"

Darn it, who’s laughing at him again!