The System Mistook Me for a Cat

Since Huan Yu elevated the gaming industry from VR capsules to holographic experience pods... every year, rumors spread online claiming, "Huan Yu has developed true holographic games." And every year, people fall for it—or perhaps their trust in Huan Yu is simply too high.

Chu Tingwu had never studied the theory behind holographic game development, but she had asked the system about it. Even the system couldn’t predict when true holographic games would emerge. It couldn’t simply hand over all the technology and principles to humanity. Instead, it had to guide researchers down the right path through investments and sponsorships. Technological breakthroughs required accumulated experimentation and, sometimes, a sudden spark of inspiration.

Moreover, applying holographic technology to gaming demanded additional supporting tools.

By the time Chu Tingwu graduated from university, Huan Yu had finally achieved what the public recognized as true holographics. When the system excitedly notified her of this milestone... she was in the African savannah, watching a leopard give birth.

After graduation, she chose to pursue further studies, though she traveled the world even more frequently with her advisor. This period was unusually stable—she had been stationed in the African savannah for a while, though the living conditions were far from ideal. The system shed a few tears every time it thought about it.

Chu Tingwu murmured, "That’s great. Does that mean I’ll get to play holographic games soon?"

Her enthusiasm for gaming was modest, but after so many years of public anticipation, even she was curious about what it would be like. Besides, multiplayer holographic games would be perfect for someone like her, constantly separated from friends and family. Meeting online with near-100% realism could ease the loneliness.

The system hesitated: "Well..."

The current technology couldn’t support multiplayer yet.

Chu Tingwu stroked her chin and suddenly realized, "Ah, of course. If we’d achieved multiplayer holographics... gaming wouldn’t be the first application!"

She had been mistaken. If technology advanced to the point of seamless "multiplayer holographics," the priority wouldn’t be games—it would be building a comprehensive holographic interaction platform.

That would be a vast virtual society, a gold rush of opportunities, a realm everyone would clamor to enter.

From VR livestreams to semi-holographic games, Wu Voice Group could maintain control. But a "holographic network"? That was best left to the state to pioneer, with the company providing technical support. After all, the system had mentioned that the primary research institute had state funding. Wu Voice Group and its subsidiary, Huan Yu, would keep a low profile. As for her, the company’s owner, she was truly inconspicuous—next on her agenda was more "grass-eating" in Africa.

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Chu Tingwu considered herself low-key, but many clearly disagreed.

For the past five years, her records had been uploaded layer by layer, stored in a certain department’s internal network, and reviewed countless times by different individuals.

From drones to VR pods, Chu Tingwu’s personal history was unremarkable. Investigations into her parents and extended family, tracing back seven or eight generations, confirmed she had no plausible access to such advanced technology. All evidence pointed to "the system," Phoenix.

Chu Tingwu’s "friend," whom she met at fifteen, was a mysterious hacker with an IP address always located abroad—yet shifting with every query.

Though the system had spokespeople, no living person had ever seen its face or even confirmed its gender. Once, a trained interrogator casually asked Chu Tingwu, "What kind of person is the system?" but extracted no useful information.

...And the interrogator couldn’t shake the feeling that Chu Tingwu knew exactly what she was after.

Yet it didn’t seem like anything had been leaked.

In the years that followed, Chu Tingwu’s files were encrypted. Those involved believed they hadn’t alerted their target but chose to remain silent anyway.

All evidence indicated that the system bore no ill intent. Chu Tingwu appeared to hold the reins of the technology, and her stance was benevolent.

So, the higher-ups tacitly granted her company every convenience while continuing to observe (and search for the system).

Chu Tingwu was a public figure.

When her video platform followers surpassed twenty million, she reduced her livestreams and uploads. The content she did share leaned toward niche, professional topics, capping her fan growth.

Yet her national recognition eclipsed most celebrities. Her company’s ventures touched countless industries, and she had zero scandals—even earning frequent coverage in state media.

On average, Chu Tingwu spent her vacations participating in extreme sports competitions. Sometimes, though, she skipped them, dedicating her rare downtime to wildlife conservation, birdwatching, or travel. After years of surveillance, the intelligence team finally reported: "She might just be... playing around."

She traveled with professional cameras, filming short documentaries, or lingered in small towns for weeks—like the time she befriended a pregnant cat at a homestay and stayed to witness the birth.

Then took the mother cat to be spayed.

Over the years, every agent assigned to Chu Tingwu reported suspicions that she had noticed them. Despite her youth, her sharpness rivaled a retired spy’s—yet she never called them out.

As a result, the intelligence team knew her personal relationships inside out, picked up cat-catching techniques and feline vocabulary, attended her competitions, and even carried her bag when she pursued a second degree.

...Wasn’t that an assistant’s job?

Eventually, one agent did become her personal assistant—and up close, realized: She knew everything.

They even obtained her medical records, though her checkups were conducted at her own hospitals, raising doubts about their authenticity. Chu Tingwu never suffered emergencies requiring outside care, leaving no openings.

After seven years, her file was reviewed less often—but its encryption grew stricter.

Someone concluded:

"If she hasn’t harmed individuals or society, let’s just accept that a higher-dimensional entity gifted us beneficial tech. Don’t overthink it. Don’t get greedy. Maintain the status quo."

"She’s a good kid."

A week later, the "good kid" returned home. Meanwhile, Huan Yu was in the early stages of developing a new holographic game.

Very early...

Because the boss hadn’t decided on the game’s theme.

At first, when the team learned the technology had finally broken through, allowing holographic games, everyone was ecstatic. But after a week of excitement, the momentum had to slow.

The government aimed to launch an online holographic platform first and was busy with its development—Chu Tingwu also learned some more detailed development issues from Vice President Ning of Huanyu:

"We've tested it. Once the number of 'users' on the entire holographic platform exceeds two, problems tend to arise, affecting the other user's experience."

It was like two people sharing the same internet connection—if one person's speed increased, the other's would slow down.

Chu Tingwu suddenly thought: "Is there any difference between my Dream Classroom’s multiplayer mode and this holographic connection?"

The system responded, exasperated: "Exactly. The upgraded Dream Classroom is essentially a multiplayer version of a holographic online game..."

Except it didn’t require any login devices. The system’s login capabilities far surpassed modern equipment, allowing direct brainwave access.

But their current research on login devices was still insufficient, which limited the multiplayer functionality.

However, this didn’t actually hinder the government’s holographic platform development—

Vice President Ning: "Actually, this holographic platform isn’t much different from a single-player game."

Chu Tingwu could give it a try first.

Chu Tingwu: *Curious kitten.jpg*

With that, she decided to really test it out.

Though she had rushed to the company straight from the airport, looking slightly travel-worn, her energy seemed high (though company employees had rarely seen her look anything less than lively). After a quick freshening up, Chu Tingwu lay down inside the holographic pod.

As the device activated, her brain felt momentarily numb—then her feet touched solid ground.

Chu Tingwu opened her eyes to a room as vast as a palace. Or rather, she was already standing inside one, beneath a dazzling golden dome. Above her sat a throne, its armrests carved with… lions and tigers? Wait—cat heads?

She glanced down at herself and realized her clothes had changed into a simple white T-shirt and black pants, different from what she’d worn when lying down. She reached up to touch her hair and concluded—

Hmm… the realism still fell short.

Taking a few steps forward confirmed it. If reality was the standard, this "holographic" experience felt like stepping from real life into a photograph. No camera could capture images as finely as the human eye; they could only approximate.

And "holography" was essentially transporting people who could see the real world into a photograph that couldn’t fully replicate reality.

It was realistic—but unmistakably not real.

The system chimed in: "Actually, the Dream Classroom is the same, just at 99%. The point of a holographic world isn’t to let humans lose themselves in it."

Even the most realistic dream needed boundaries to distinguish it from reality.

While inside, Chu Tingwu could still receive messages from the outside. With a wave, a panel appeared before her, almost like the system interface—

At that moment, Vice President Ning asked cheerfully: "So, boss? What do you think it’s missing?"

He’d half-expected to impress or surprise her, but instead, Chu Tingwu listed a series of demands that left him stunned: How did the boss seem like she’d already experienced a full-fledged holographic system?

But as Chu Tingwu looked around, she realized this was just a "holographic mini-map of a palace," far from meeting the standards of a true holographic entertainment platform.

Vice President Ning gestured for her to wait. She casually sat on the throne, stretching her body, and noticed another detail—

In VR games, players were still limited by their physical capabilities. But in this holographic space, her real body lay motionless in the pod, allowing her to perform extreme movements effortlessly—like bending her leg over her head with barely any strain.

On this virtual platform, physical limitations were reduced. And while she found it lacking in realism, here, the paralyzed could stand, the blind could see, and the deaf-mute could hear and speak.

—This was a technological revolution that could reshape society. She was just fortunate enough to witness its infancy.

Realizing this, she noticed she’d grown slightly impatient.

As her mood settled, Chu Tingwu saw something appear before her—

An icon for TaoTao Shopping Platform.

Chu Tingwu: "?"

Then the icon flipped, transforming into the red-and-blue logo of a popular messaging app. Another flip, and it became the New Plum app icon, followed by 365 Cat Census… Fenghua Network… and so on, totaling six well-known app symbols.

These six icons merged in front of her, undergoing a flashy "transformation" effect before coalescing into a dice floating mid-air.

Hmm… Chu Tingwu wondered—what was the point of this animation?

Vice President Ning motioned for her to push the dice.

It spun rapidly before landing, the top face displaying "TaoTao."

The dice suddenly expanded, dissolving into starlight and reforming into a towering… TaoTao homepage interface.

The system panel before her could be controlled via touch or voice to navigate this interface. She refreshed it, but nothing changed, so she randomly clicked a link, landing in a women’s clothing store.

Selecting an item on display, a "Try On" prompt appeared.

After choosing it, her plain starter outfit was instantly layered with a camel-colored coat.

One use of the holographic platform—

Trying on clothes before buying.

The second use—

She discovered she could browse the internet seamlessly here. Playing games, making calls, researching, or watching shows—all were convenient and fast… If someone lacked a phone, computer, or TV, they could just buy their all-in-one holographic pod.

"But this is nothing like the holographic platform I imagined!"

Climbing out of the pod, Chu Tingwu firmly rejected the default "palace-style login space" and called a meeting with the team.

Having experienced it firsthand, her understanding of the current holographic technology grew clearer—

Due to technical limitations, the multiplayer platform couldn’t achieve much yet. It couldn’t construct a virtual "Cloud Earth" where people could meet, hug, or kiss as holographic avatars. For now, it was just "holographic internet"—making certain aspects of life more convenient.

Like the virtual fitting feature on Taotao Mall, Vice President Ning admitted that the dice could only roll to Taotao’s website, and the storefront platform on the homepage was actually their own creation. Chu Tingwu couldn’t refresh other options and could only choose from the few uploaded outfits—because that was all the data they had for now.

But they believed that if the holographic pods and personal character registration were opened to the public, those few outfits could sell hundreds of thousands, even millions of copies—because this was an untapped blue ocean.

So, caution was paramount. Wu Voice Group wouldn’t participate in the holographic platform yet; they’d start with standalone holographic games first.

Chu Tingwu: "...Why are you all looking at me?"

Wu Voice Group was already well-established, with plenty of games under their belt. She didn’t think she had much to contribute.

Someone joked, "But this will be the first-ever holographic game! It’s historic! Boss, think about what you’d most want to make!"

Chu Tingwu smiled.

Perhaps this would be humanity’s first holographic game, but in truth, she had already experienced the real first one—a dream crafted for her by the system.

"A holographic game…" Chu Tingwu mused. "Blue Planet Online: Second Life?"

Someone raised their hand. "Isn’t the map a bit too big…?"

Chu Tingwu: "Then give the players a small island and let them fish solo."

Someone pounded the table. "That’s way too simple!"

Chu Tingwu: "..." Nothing satisfies you people, huh?

She recalled the scenes she had just seen—the grand hall, the floating dice, that glance from the throne. What did gamers truly seek in a game? Rewards, a sense of achievement, self-improvement, and experiences beyond the ordinary—things they couldn’t see or feel in reality.

Leaning back in her chair, she spread her hands. "Fine, the theme doesn’t matter. Just make it something I can’t experience in real life."

The room fell silent.

Boss, you really know how to give them an impossible task.

Chu Tingwu’s "reality" was not the same as everyone else’s.

Most people would never know the thrill of scaling walls, but Chu Tingwu had been recognized as a top-tier parkour athlete by her mid-teens. Rumors said she could talk to animals (What, are you a princess?). She could split bricks with her bare hands—no, wait, she was just a master of free combat (so wuxia themes were out too). Last year, she’d even completed a no-parachute jump—plummeting from 10,000 meters with nothing but an acceleration pack, adjusting her trajectory mid-air to land precisely on target.

Fewer than five people worldwide could pull that off. By the time she graduated college, Chu Tingwu was already a legend in extreme sports.

The team couldn’t help but resent it: the world just wasn’t challenging enough for their boss!

So… they would create a "challenging" world with code and graphics.

Strangely enough, the thought filled them with excitement.

As Chu Tingwu left the meeting room, she could still hear them debating between "magic," "apocalypse," or "sci-fi."

Chu Tingwu: Good luck.

Eventually, you’ll all realize the map is too big to make.

She was curious about what they’d finally present to her.

That curiosity kept her looking forward to each new day.

Of course, sometimes she wasn’t all that curious about the outcome—but anticipation lingered anyway.

Like waiting for this year’s birthday gift, holiday presents, anniversary surprises… or even just a gift for no reason at all.

The last kind usually came from her boyfriend.

By the time Chu Tingwu graduated, Shao Lingwu had already been studying abroad for two years, but his presence in her life hadn’t diminished much—partly because of the convenience of the internet (and semi-holographic meetups), and partly because Shao Lingwu visited so often that Chu Tingwu wondered if his university had perpetual breaks. Otherwise, how did he keep spawning around her with such frequency?

During his last visit, Shao Lingwu had brought her a flower from his dorm—a plant left behind by the previous tenant. He hadn’t paid it any attention until one day, an unknown sprout appeared.

When it bloomed, he didn’t take a photo. Instead, he carried the pot across the ocean, carefully presenting it to Chu Tingwu so she could smell the indescribable fragrance.

By the time it reached her, the flower had wilted, its white petals drooping. When Chu Tingwu saw it, Shao Lingwu was cradling it on a book page, looking like he was silently praying for its survival.

Later, the wilted blooms were dried and hung beneath San Wu Wu’s favorite cat tree.

Every time the cat ascended her throne, she’d bat at the dried petals, sending them flying.

That night, Chu Tingwu took Shao Lingwu on her motorcycle, riding fifteen kilometers to a ranch on the city’s outskirts.

"I’ve smelled this before, here."

She had traveled many places in the world, memorizing their scents, but sometimes a scent was just a scent. If Shao Lingwu hadn’t brought her that flower, she wouldn’t have thought to push open the ranch’s gate—

Look, here they are.

White petals edged in blue, clustered together, releasing that same nameless, delicate fragrance.

There were so many things worth celebrating in this world, and together, they found even more.

Chu Tingwu shared news of the holographic game with close friends. Most were excited, though a few abroad grumbled about the inevitable six-month delay in overseas releases and the occasional regional restrictions.

Chu Tingwu: "The standalone version will come faster, just like with *The Migratory Bird*."

An Shiyan urged, "So when is your company updating *The Migratory Bird* to holographic? That’s gotta be easier than designing a whole new game from scratch."

Plus, it already had an established fanbase!

Chu Tingwu had seen the proposal. "It’s definitely happening—"

Though, in *The Migratory Bird*, she was kind of an NPC—more of an easter egg character? How would "she" be adapted this time?

The game was inspired by her real-life journey tracking migrating red-feathered falcons and returning a fledgling to its flock. The players’ avatars didn’t resemble her, but the story was hers. Instead of heading back to ask, she just consulted the system directly.

The system, of course, knew: "The holographic adaptation of *The Migratory Bird* is partially done, but they think your character model isn’t realistic enough, so they decided—"

Chu Tingwu: Remove the easter egg?

System: "To turn you into a statue at the save point."

Chu Tingwu: "?"

The System: "It's your signature poses—holding a bird, balancing one on your head, watching birds fly away—and then placing your statue in the city center. Everyone says it looks like a heroic spirit, which is just so cool!"

Chu Tingwu: "…?"

The System: "For pacing reasons, the game won’t auto-save anymore. Players have to toss a coin at your statue to save now—"

Chu Tingwu: "……"

Perfect. The ultimate cyber wishing well is born.

She could already imagine future sales pitches: "Toss a coin at Chu Tingwu for good luck!" After all, as the boss, surely she could bless players with in-game gacha gold pulls, right?!