The System Mistook Me for a Cat

Of course, the statue might not just function as a wishing well—players who reach it can also make a wish to "unlock" a gameplay scene "filmed" from a third-person perspective, with the player themselves as the protagonist.

—These videos can either be exported by players to share online or help them recall in-game details and relive the experience with friends.

Sharing is also a way to recruit new players.

To boost sales, the game must offer convenient sharing options.

So Chu Tingwu heard that while the first full-dive VR game hadn’t been developed yet, the team was already brainstorming ways to integrate "invisible drones" into the game, doubling as promotional material for the company’s drone business—letting players film themselves while gaming.

During Chu Tingwu’s second visit to the company, the head of the planning department informed her—

They’d finally settled on an idea for their debut VR game.

Chu Tingwu: "Oh?"

The lead designer, walking beside her with heavy dark circles but visibly energized, said, "We’ve debated this for a long time. The biggest challenge is creating a vast, realistic in-game world."

Whether it’s sci-fi, fantasy, ancient martial arts, or medieval adventures… even a simple "hero slays the demon king" premise requires continuously unlocking new maps. Otherwise, the game would feel stale.

Unless it’s a basic simulation game, where the map could be limited to a small town or even just the player’s shop. But simulation games don’t necessarily need VR—they’d feel overly complex unless packed with engaging mechanics.

As for single-player games without multiplayer interaction, retaining players and keeping them hooked requires endless progression within a confined map—something Huan Yu avoided. The company’s planning office had a slogan plastered on the wall:

"Only fun games are good games."

The lead designer smiled. "So we landed on—the Academy Genre!"

Chu Tingwu nodded in realization. "That makes sense."

The Academy Genre… If players are cast as students, it’s perfectly logical to restrict them to campus grounds. And since the academy’s map wouldn’t exceed the size of a small town, development time could be kept manageable. The rest would hinge on gameplay mechanics, progression systems, diverse NPCs, and triggerable storylines—

The lead designer added, "We’ll use daily side quests to extend playtime and structure six academic years, gradually expanding the map in future updates."

In other words, players start as first-years. While second- and third-year classrooms, NPCs, and props appear fully rendered, players can’t actually enter those areas—most upperclassmen NPCs remain unapproachable, minimizing unfinished content. These zones would be fleshed out as players advance.

So if someone glitched into restricted areas, they’d find mere placeholder textures.

But Huan Yu opted for subtle immersion over blatant "under construction" signs, gently discouraging exploration without breaking the illusion.

Lead Designer: "We estimate completing the first academic year will take players twenty full days."

Unlike traditional single-player games, where even the longest campaigns rarely exceed twenty hours.

He admitted this nervously—no existing game had such a drawn-out progression. Would players stay engaged? Or quit mid-way and leave scathing reviews?

If the first year failed to captivate, all future updates would be moot.

Besides, players couldn’t live inside VR pods indefinitely. Current models capped at six hours of immersion daily, meaning an average player might need three months to finish.

Chu Tingwu, however, smiled. "True, no single-player game runs this long. But then, no true VR game has existed before either. If it’s too short, it won’t deliver that ‘second life’ immersion… Go all out."

Huan Yu’s VR development costs were far lower than competitors’. More than commercial success, she wanted to see a passionately crafted, genuinely fun experience.

This academy wouldn’t teach mundane subjects—it specialized in cultivation.

Set on Kunlun Mountain, the "Daoist Arcane Academy" enrolled twelve-year-olds who studied until graduation at eighteen.

Man Xing muttered, "...So they’d graduate just in time for college entrance exams?"

Chu Tingwu: "Almost poetic. They’d master esoteric skills here first."

The backdrop wasn’t historical but modern, infused with xianxia elements.

Chu Tingwu also knew NPCs would be AI-driven. Since developing *Skybird*, the system had greenlit Huan Yu’s experiments with AI NPCs—making them dynamic enough to organically generate side stories.

—The team’s confidence in retaining players via side quests stemmed from NPCs interacting naturally, weaving subplots around the main narrative.

Chu Tingwu: "Could side quests derail the main story?"

Lead Designer: "Virtually impossible."

Chu Tingwu: "‘Virtually’…?"

Lead Designer: "Well, theoretically possible, but we haven’t replicated it yet."

A double-edged sword. Embracing NPC autonomy meant accepting unpredictability.

Chu Tingwu wasn’t interrogating him. She stood on Huan Yu’s third floor—once a bustling staff cafeteria, now quieter as the company prepared to relocate.

Last year, Huan Yu had purchased land in Maple City for its true headquarters.

As a top-tier domestic firm stuck leasing in pricey Sea City, they’d debated constructing their own HQ for months, eventually shifting some operations to Maple City.

Several locations were proposed, but Maple City won for its affordability, scenic surroundings, convenient transport (just an hour by train to Sea City), and—critically—hosting the nation’s second-largest amusement park. The system (believing Chu Tingwu would approve) favored it.

Plus, Maple City’s government offered incentives, and the park was ideal for live events.

Chu Tingwu had returned for the groundbreaking ceremony. Man Xing, coincidentally free, temporarily resumed her role as assistant.

Compared to their first meeting, Man Xing’s demeanor had changed quite a bit. Her attire had become more understated and comfortable, and her attitude gentler, though occasionally, the furrow of her brows gave her an air of quiet confidence and reliability. Her words, however, were as direct as ever:

“When is the boss going to make another documentary for the foundation? The last one barely counts as part one, doesn’t it?”

Ah, opening with a prompt to hurry Chu Tingwu along.

Chu Tingwu quickly excused herself, citing academic commitments.

For some reason, every department in the company took pride in having Chu Tingwu film and edit a documentary. She’d heard there was even an unspoken competition brewing among them—

Truthfully, film-related work could easily be handed over to Phoenix Studios, far more professional than she was. But she suspected that suggesting it outright would crush their morale, so she kept putting it off.

Filming and editing required inspiration, after all!

Lately, Chu Tingwu had shifted her focus to animals. She could now effortlessly fade into the background, moving through crowds without drawing a single glance. In her free time, she’d wander with a packed lunch and her camera, capturing short clips and sporadically updating her personal account—much to the amusement of her followers.

To those who knew her, Chu Tingwu’s schedule seemed packed. Even when she wasn’t preparing for competitions, she often received invitations related to extreme sports, along with offers for advertisements or endorsements—the latter usually met with polite declines.

Yet Chu Tingwu never felt pressed for time. Her energy was boundless, her rest shorter but more efficient than most. Despite the workload, she still found moments to cook for herself daily.

Though, in the past two years, she hadn’t needed to. The company’s kitchen robots, under the system’s control, had been busy experimenting with new recipes.

After returning from abroad, Shao Lingwu rented the apartment next to Chu Tingwu’s, their doors facing each other. Their routines, lifestyles, and even food preferences differed, so they’d naturally carved out private spaces for themselves.

Of course, they each had a key to the other’s place.

When Chu Tingwu pushed the door open, she found her boyfriend sprawled on the floor, playing dead.

—During his two years overseas, Shao Lingwu had formed a band with schoolmates, releasing several hit songs. Had he stayed, he might’ve become a rock sensation (pfft), but the group disbanded this year.

Creative differences, business conflicts, cultural gaps, and post-graduation paths—countless reasons had scattered the once-vibrant ensemble. Shao Lingwu, however, didn’t dwell on the complexities.

Him: “I’ve run out of inspiration for rock. I want to try other genres!”

As the band’s songwriter, lyricist, and one of the lead vocalists, he’d given up trying to persuade his friends and opted to return home—technically, to “mooch off his parents.”

Hearing Chu Tingwu enter, the boyfriend rolled off the carpet, hastily grabbing his tablet to feign productivity.

Chu Tingwu ignored the act, greeting him before settling on the couch and scooping up Sanwuwu, who had melted into a pancake. Shao Lingwu inched to the edge of the sofa, then stealthily wrapped his arms around her waist.

Sanwuwu didn’t even blink, purring as she rolled over.

With a gesture, Chu Tingwu activated the smart home system, projecting the latest design details for the holographic game sent by Cosmos Entertainment.

The living room was quiet—until the faint patter of rain began.

Outside, a light drizzle soon turned into steady rainfall, the sound muffled indoors. But Chu Tingwu could hear it all: the creak of a window opening, distant shouts, the splash of puddles, a car honking, and further still—

Shao Lingwu: “I’m listening to your heartbeat.”

He tossed the tablet aside, shifting onto the couch to fully embrace her, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

This was a habit by now. Whenever inspiration deserted him or anxiety crept in, he’d cling to her like a charger… Chu Tingwu later realized he was drowning out the noise, focusing solely on the rhythm of her heart.

Like a song.

Her attention still on the game, Chu Tingwu absently hummed in acknowledgment, her free hand ruffling Shao Lingwu’s hair.

The other hand, of course, was busy combing Sanwuwu’s fur.

The tortoiseshell cat radiated warmth, as if the dampness of the rain dared not touch her.

Creative types—or rather, the emotionally volatile—were like this. Sometimes, Chu Tingwu could sense Shao Lingwu’s moods, but his thoughts were a whirlwind even she couldn’t always decipher.

Last month, when Sanwuwu fell mildly ill—just a cold with some vomiting—Shao Lingwu had insisted on hospitalization, despite the cat’s advanced age. Chu Tingwu arrived at the clinic calm; the system had assured her Sanwuwu was fine, healthier than most housecats after years of meticulous care.

Her expression stayed neutral as the vet listed precautions, but Shao Lingwu burst into tears, hugging her tightly.

On the way home, he’d fidgeted, words stuck in his throat.

Chu Tingwu: “…What is it?”

Shao Lingwu: “Leaving Sanwuwu alone there feels cruel. What if she’s lonely?”

Yet he’d been too worried about her health to consider alternatives.

—They didn’t have a family doctor, but now he wondered if Sanwuwu needed one.

Chu Tingwu: “Then let’s bring her back… The hospital’s literally downstairs.”

A single elevator ride separated their home from the clinic. Sanwuwu could probably press the buttons herself—knowing her, she’d bust out of the cage and waltz home by nightfall. Their doors even had cat flaps.

Shao Lingwu: “Mm…”

Chu Tingwu: *Is he agonizing over a proposal or something?*

She kept the thought to herself, but she understood: Shao Lingwu felt deeply, his imagination running wild. Perhaps he’d already leaped to a distant, sorrowful future—one painful enough to bring him to tears. Chu Tingwu, though, treasured the present, hoarding every moment like a secret.

Death might mean parting, but every memory forged in love would always glow.

…Hm. If she told him now, *“I’m healthier, so you’ll probably go first,”* would he cry?

That night, Shao Lingwu indeed fetched Sanwuwu, promptly irritating the feline matriarch. Before being banished to the guest room, he finally mustered—or stumbled upon—the words he’d struggled to say.

He even avoided Sanwuwu, whispering as if to shield her from the weight of his thoughts:

"I think many movies have this scene where the protagonist loses their family, and their lover holds them saying, 'I’ll become your family from now on.' It's not a bad sentiment, but it always feels a bit off."

Chu Tingwu: "Hmm?"

"Every person is irreplaceable, and so is every cat. That kind of statement feels like compensation—almost arrogant," he said, his eyes downcast. His hair had darkened with age, the natural curls softening as they grew longer, tied into a small ponytail at the ends. "If I were to say, 'I want to be your family,' it would only be because I love you."

"I love you, so I want you to be happy forever, to never wear a sad expression."

"But if you do feel sad, I’ll be sad with you."

Then he picked up his pajamas and headed to the guest room.

Chu Tingwu: "…"

I really thought you were about to propose.

She returned to the bed where San Wu Wu lay, the mother cat breathing steadily, their heads touching just like when she was fifteen.

It was just a few days after San Wu Wu became her family that the person who loved her most also left her. Her birth father, his face blurred in her memory, stood before her and demanded, "Why aren’t you crying?"

Maybe someone else cried for her, so they hoped the rest of her life would always be filled with smiles.

Chu ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‍Tingwu closed her eyes:

Shao Lingwu would never guess what he missed out on today.

—

However, Shao Lingwu didn’t miss the beta test for *Daoist Academy*.

He had given up on reviving his band or transitioning into a singer-songwriter. But the joy of creation hadn’t disappeared—so he decided to work behind the scenes for a year or two, releasing songs while continuing his studies. This freed up a lot of time, and he ended up spending more time with his girlfriend than he had during college.

So when Zhou Qiang came over for a meal, she urged Chu Tingwu to sign up for the around-the-world sailing race. Held once every four years, the next one was scheduled for the following year, but registration this year meant she could spend the latter half of it training.

Similar to the Antarctic Cup, the non-stop solo sailing race hosted by White Dove required a record of qualifying races to even register. Fewer than fifty people worldwide had completed the challenge, and historically, only two from China had ever secured a spot—neither of whom finished the race.

Shao Lingwu didn’t even look up: "She was already planning to sign up."

So cut him some slack—he was about to go nearly a year without seeing her.

Zhou Qiang: "=="

Zhou Qiang also managed to snag a beta test for *Daoist Academy* and brought along some news: "You’re a bit late. There’s already another ‘full-dive VR game’ making rounds online."

A management sim, released alongside a new platform, it boasted full immersion but was mediocre in quality and prone to disconnections.

Chu Tingwu: "But most players are still waiting for Huan Yu’s game to launch."

The future of VR gaming wouldn’t be monopolized by Huan Yu, but until they released their title, players wouldn’t accept anything of lesser quality as true "full-dive VR."

They were the industry benchmark, the ones who could set the standard.

Chu Tingwu: "I don’t know how fun *Daoist Academy* will be, but it will definitely be the first game that truly deserves to be called full-dive VR."

Since it was just a beta, Chu Tingwu lowered her expectations slightly as she lay down in the VR pod. Still, she’d heard that the storyline and character designs had been reviewed by experts from the Taoist Association—every talisman, hand gesture, and piece of lore in the game was meticulously researched and authentic.

…Maybe if you mastered the game, you could even qualify for a real Taoist priest certification?

With that curiosity in mind, Chu Tingwu opened her eyes.

Her body was temporarily immobilized as an animation played before her—

Twelve-year-old her was discussing with her family (their faces slightly blurred, lacking distinct features) which middle school to attend when suddenly, mist swirled through the room. A Taoist priest riding a crane phased through the wall, declaring that she possessed spiritual potential and had been admitted to the Kunlun Mountain Daoist Academy.

Her family was overjoyed (Chu Tingwu: *Do you seriously not think this sounds like a scam?*) and immediately started packing her luggage. Her belongings were then stuffed into a spatial ring hung around her neck, and the priest announced he could take her directly to the school—boarding system, holidays at home, and regular communication allowed.

Before Chu Tingwu could clarify whether "communication" meant phone calls or message talismans, she was plopped onto another crane’s back.

Then, she regained control of her body.

**[Main Quest:]**

**[Pilot your crane and follow Priest Bu Li to Kunlun Mountain.]**

**[Reward: One Daoist Academy uniform set.]**

Chu Tingwu: *Your cranes aren’t even self-driving?!*

Controlling the crane wasn’t difficult—mostly reliant on three feathers at its neck and leg movements to adjust speed. A minimap showed Bu Li’s location ahead, while the spatial ring functioned as an external "inventory," currently holding only a little money, basic clothes, and stationery.

Once she got the hang of it, Chu Tingwu patted the crane’s head and glanced down—

The city glittered below, its lights converging into a river of stars. She and the priest weaved between skyscrapers, close enough to see office workers burning the midnight oil inside, yet none noticed the cranes soaring past their windows.

It struck her then:

Cultivation was choosing a different path in life.

Many people never get the chance to make that choice, but full-dive VR offers them an opportunity—a door to a new world.

She knew the "buildings" she saw weren’t real, that the map couldn’t possibly be fully rendered. If a player jumped off their crane, they’d just black out and respawn at the starting point, forced to retry the quest.

The crane flew too fast, its destination too ethereal. When it finally landed, Kunlun Mountain loomed ahead, shrouded in mist. They had stopped at the foot of the mountain.

Bu Li seemed surprised. "You’ve got steady nerves and quick reflexes. I expected to have to fish you out of the sky."

She even gave Chu Tingwu a piece of candy to freshen her mouth.

At that speed and height, keeping your eyes open in reality would be a struggle—but games don’t obey reality… well, in theory.

Because Bu Li then explained that to officially enroll, she’d have to climb to the academy gates on foot. At the same time, her character panel unfurled, divided into **"Body Forging," "Spirit Condensation,"** and **"Qi Nurturing,"** along with level indicators and primary/secondary specialization tracks.

She had 18 starting points to allocate freely among the three base stats.

Chu Tingwu looked up at the mist-veiled Kunlun Mountain. "Is there only one path up?"

Bu Li: "Some see one road. Others see many forks. How many paths there are depends entirely on your choices."

Chu Tingwu: *Sounds about right for cultivation.*

And if it were up to her… she’d walk every single one.

Bu Li had expected the child to ask a few more questions—perhaps inquire whether turning around and leaving would allow them to go home—so she could reply, "Because you're still young, you can only see the mist. Once you’ve cultivated enough, the fog beyond the mountain will disperse." But in truth, this was just a lie the Daoist masters told. The mountain mist was an unbreakable formation, and even the children had to ride cranes alone to leave during holidays.

Yet Chu Tingwu didn’t ask a single question.

Bu Li: Choked on her words.

Maybe this child was just more mature? That wasn’t a bad thing, she thought.

Three hours later, she spotted Chu Tingwu reaching the mountain peak again. But after a glance at the school gate, the child turned and headed back down the path, muttering, "I remember there are still two side paths I haven’t explored…"

A senior disciple nudged Bu Li: "…?"

*This* is the mature, steady newcomer you were talking about?!