Cat 129: Reported

Chapter 129: Reported

The last campus instance Yan Jiyun had entered was “Home After School,” his very first in-game experience, set in an elementary school. But that was just a 24-hour beginner round—little more than a day in a child’s life, with the school setting fading before noon. Now, the “Mermaid” instance was pure high school, through and through.

The first time he entered an instance, every task seemed daunting. Yet looking back now, each previous round seemed easier in retrospect. Every new instance was more challenging than the last.

During the ten-minute break between classes, what could a player do?

As soon as class ended, Yan Jiyun noticed several players even more anxious than he—dashing from the classroom at the first opportunity.

He took a careful headcount. Comparing expressions could distinguish players from NPCs. Of the thirty students in his class, about ten stole frequent, furtive glances the instant class ended—roughly half the group. Since there were a hundred players in this instance, with about fifteen per class, there would be at least six classes; perhaps more, depending on the system’s allocation. Maybe their class simply had more players assigned by chance.

As Yan Jiyun observed, he noted something odd: all players in this instance seemed to be the same age.

He remembered that the game never allowed anyone under eighteen to sign up. The youngest he’d met was a girl who’d just finished college entrance exams. With random player assignment, how could they all convincingly pass for sixteen or seventeen?

It was likely that the instance deliberately “de-aged” everyone. If “Animal Madness Park” could transform players into animals, then making them look a bit younger was a trivial adjustment for the system.

Yan Jiyun picked up the little mirror his NPC seatmate was using to inspect his acne. He examined himself in it.

Indeed, his own face had grown much younger—just like he’d looked back in high school, with all the adolescent softness of youth.

Although he was only in his early twenties now and still looked like a university student, what he saw in the mirror was unmistakably a seventeen-year-old.

Astonishing—this game could actually make people “young again.”

No, it made sense. It was to maintain immersion: keep player avatars consistent with the story by layering an appearance filter, like an upgraded beauty function from a social app. Still, the game’s tech was far superior—though every player’s look was subtly “smoothed,” their real features, intelligence, height, and weight were unchanged—only their faces matched the age of their character.

[Congratulations! You have unlocked your role information.]

[Role: Student]

[Age: 17]

[Class: Senior 3, Class 18 (Art Exam Class)]

[Art Exam Specialty: Music (Vocal Performance)]

He saw his new identity. Simple enough: he was a vocal student in music.

So the system had detected his total lack of musical talent and dropped him into the vocal performance class on purpose?

Why not throw him into dance instead? That would have wrung even more out of him! Damn.

When they’d bought information for this round, not one seller had mentioned this was a music-themed instance. Had the content changed because the difficulty increased?

The main quest had been issued quickly; he needed to figure out how to survive the coming exam.

While other panicked players rushed out in search of teammates, Yan Jiyun left his seat and headed for the hallway.

With this Level 4 hard mode, who knew how many traps lurked? He couldn’t reveal himself or his companions too soon.

So, acting like any normal NPC, he used the break to head to the restroom.

Most players now scurried about with anxious looks, seeking teammates—they, too, were clearly bewildered by this “Level 4 hard” turn of events.

Yan Jiyun was equally stumped. The system must have bugged and ramped up the difficulty without warning.

Such luck—this was now the second time an update happened just as he entered an instance.

Wasn’t an “instance update” supposed to be different from a “system update”—wasn’t it not supposed to affect the instance content?

If only the main quest changed, that would be easy enough—he’d just lose points for item purchases. But what he’d really lost was all the value of the intelligence he’d bought beforehand. His earlier prep was now almost useless; in fact, his entire investment had likely been wiped out.

A Level 2 hard mode was nothing compared to Level 4.

He hadn’t expected his luck to be this wretched—a system update that upped the difficulty? Was the point to send intermediate players to their deaths?

Despite his inner panic, he forced himself to calm down.

Level 4 or not, he would treat it like a beginner instance—simple versus hard mode. He’d just picked the hard route, is all.

One day, if he ever met the people behind this game, he’d give them hell.

Lingering by the restroom doors, Yan Jiyun wondered if Gu Wenzhu or Qiu Xi had made it into the same instance. By rights, since they’d queued as a party, they shouldn’t be split.

When they joined, the system message listed fifty players—yet now there were one hundred. It was unlikely the party had been scattered.

Break time was now past two minutes. No sign of Gu Wenzhu or Qiu Xi at the restrooms.

Seniors in their final year ought to be in the same academic building. With a hundred people, that meant more than six classes—but possibly on the same floor.

Why had no one shown up?

Had the player body’s appearance changed so much from exam cramming that he simply failed to recognize them?

Or perhaps their classes were just somewhere else.

Yan Jiyun noticed a few others with the same thought; he followed the NPCs into the restroom as well, doing his best to blend in. Until he’d met up with his companions, he’d avoid drawing attention.

He wasn’t overly worried about the exam task. The side quest hadn’t said it was mandatory—if he failed, he’d simply move to the next. But he would try; there were always ways to get through a basic test.

His vision was a little sharper than most. Cheating, for him, was no big deal.

At the sink, he was just washing his hands when three boys shoved a neat, quiet-looking student back into the bathroom.

The one with a scar between his brows shoved the quiet boy. “Han Ruibai, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you know Cheng Su is my girlfriend? How dare you confess to her!”

Han Ruibai seemed unphased, looking annoyed rather than frightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The scarred one pressed Han’s head toward the sink. “Don’t know? Weren’t you with Cheng Su last night?”

With composure, Han Ruibai replied, “She found me, not the other way around. I think you’re misunderstanding.”

Yan Jiyun couldn’t leave—he was trapped by the crowd at the door, eager to go find his teammates.

Han Ruibai—an NPC with a full name. Could he be key to the main story?

Yan Jiyun wasn’t interested in high school romance drama: this couldn’t be the heart of the instance, could it? That would be comically juvenile.

Still, he edged back from the NPCs. It stank in here.

All he wanted was to leave.

But the three boys now had him blocked at the sink.

Seizing a gap, Yan Jiyun tried to slip out, but one of the thugs took his irritation out on him and shoved him roughly.

“Blind, are you? Can’t see we’re busy here?”

Yan Jiyun stumbled back two steps.

He really couldn’t stand the smell any longer and frowned. “You’re in my way—how is that my fault?”

He knew he shouldn’t pick a fight with NPCs, but they’d started it. They could hardly blame him.

The three turned on him, ignoring Han Ruibai for the moment.

Their leader snarled, “Got a death wish? Don’t know who Brother Yu is?”

Yan Jiyun didn’t, of course—he wasn’t a regular student here.

Still no sign of Gu Wenzhu or Qiu Xi. The system had riled his temper, and now these NPCs had walked right into his line of fire.

Han Ruibai’s relevance to the story was unclear, but right now, Yan Jiyun was sick of this toxic campus garbage.

He shut the bathroom door, rolled his wrists. “You only have yourselves to blame for picking the wrong guy to mess with today.”

Grabbing the broom from behind the door, he swung hard at the three of them. When they snatched away his broom, he threw punches instead—a left, right, left, incorporating moves Qi Feng had taught him. His speed left the students reeling, flattening all three before they could react. They rolled on the floor yelping.

He hit hard, but not recklessly; he gave them no chance to retaliate.

“Next time, keep your hands to yourselves.”

Stepping over the broom, Yan Jiyun saw the scarred bully, still furious, draw a folding knife from his pocket and lunge for him.

Yan Jiyun, already winded and standing too close, twisted—he might get slashed even dodging.

Before he could reflect on being knifed in his first minutes of the game, Han Ruibai, who’d been passive this whole time, suddenly shoved the thug against the wall, nearly smashing his face into the urinal.

The thug spat, “You made a mistake today, Han Ruibai. You better never walk around alone again!” He glared at Yan Jiyun. “You too—”

Yan Jiyun calmly raised the broom. “Say one more word and I’ll stick this right in your mouth.”

The scarred Liu Yu: “…”

The warning bell rang. Yan Jiyun sighed—they’d wasted his whole break.

He left the bathroom, washed his hands again, and headed for class, Han Ruibai following behind.

Remembering the earlier shove, Yan Jiyun offered a gruff thanks. “Appreciate it.”

Han Ruibai replied coldly, “He pushed me first. I just pushed him back. Wasn’t helping you.”

Yan Jiyun nodded. In the hallway, he listened for clues—he could now tell which classmates were players and which NPCs.

He watched Han Ruibai head into his classroom, while Liu Yu, the bully, passed by their room and shot daggers at both of them.

Curiously, fighting these NPCs hadn’t triggered a side quest. Maybe neither of them was mainline?

As the bell rang, the same teacher returned and began handing out exam papers.

Those who had run off seeking teammates sprinted back—they must all have received the “must-pass” test quest.

As he passed other groups, Yan Jiyun overheard snatches of conversation.

Each track had its own test: dance classes took practicals, music-instrumentals had instrument tests, broadcasting students tested in standard Mandarin, artists took sketching.

The regular track took a random subject: lit, math, or English. Yan Jiyun thought their tests sounded enviably easy. But not him—he drew the one thing he couldn’t do at all.

The teacher announced, “Anyone who fails the test will be kept for night study!”

Compared to a dance skills test, these all seemed designed to knock players out. And who knew what would happen to the after-school study crowd?

He was taking the side quest seriously now—nothing could be glossed over in a Level 4 hard mode.

Exam papers shuffled backward row by row. Han Ruibai handed Yan Jiyun his sheet—he sat directly in front. What luck.

He tapped Han Ruibai’s elbow with his pen. “Hey, mind helping me later?”

Han Ruibai turned. “How?”

Yan Jiyun masked his lips behind the paper. “Let me borrow your answers.”

Han Ruibai shot him a dubious look. “Aren’t your grades great? You want to copy off me?”

Yan Jiyun glanced at the system “tip.”

Damn—so “maintain your character’s setting” meant he was a model student?

“Listen, I just helped you out in there. My arm’s sore so I can’t write. You owe me.”

Han Ruibai observed him spinning his pen with ease. “But you didn’t injure your brain.”

Not expecting such sass from an NPC, Yan Jiyun whispered, “So will you or won’t you?”

“If you can manage to copy them, be my guest.”

He was about to ask what that meant when the exquisitely dressed teacher looked their way.

Pushing up his glasses with a stony expression, the teacher said, “No talking. No cheating. Do what you can, leave what you can’t.”

This guy was much grimmer than real-world teachers faking sternness—he radiated an unsettling chill.

Yan Jiyun feigned interest in the paper. He could read every word—none made sense.

Several students whispered while the teacher’s back was turned.

So he wasn’t alone—no one here really knew music theory.

Other players tried every trick: glancing at neighbors, flipping books open, improvising new schemes.

Cautious as always, Yan Jiyun watched from mid-row, chin propped, weighing who had the best method—he didn’t know Han Ruibai well enough to trust him outright. If his cover got blown, he’d have nothing.

NPCs, after all, were ruled by the game. He couldn’t count on compassion. And he had to keep in mind—this was Level 4 hard mode.

He’d never even experienced a Level 3.

On the podium, the teacher never truly turned his back—he seemed aware of every student’s move.

The teacher’s beady eyes never left them.

Unlike veteran players with lightning-fast hands, Yan Jiyun wasn’t sure he could flip paper quick enough to get away with it.

But the teacher soon settled that debate: he strode straight to a cheating player, yanked out the hidden text.

With an eerie leer, he rasped, “Li Ping’an—cheating.”

Then, in front of everyone, ripped Li Ping’an’s test into shreds. Li Ping’an paled, and when the teacher returned to the podium, he sat there stunned.

Yan Jiyun watched his fingers tremble—his face growing whiter by the second.

What kind of system message had he just received?

Once caught, nobody else dared whisper. The room quieted.

With forty-five minutes for the test, there were only so many questions—just enough time.

He suspected only those who passed could progress.

Students were expected to keep attending classes, per their role. Skip, and you’d break character. Achieve a high score, and you might get leeway—ask to leave, and the teacher might let you; but a top student skipping class would defy their profile. That’s where the game’s punitive logic kicked in.

He’d yet to run afoul of this, but he was wary.

Li Ping’an just sat there, pale but otherwise unchanged.

Test fail meant after-school study; cheating and being caught was immediate disqualification and forced evening class.

Yan Jiyun had no desire to spend his first night stuck in remedial lessons.

His vision, unhumanly keen, let him spy on neighboring test sheets without turning his head.

To anyone else, he looked like a curly-haired, clear-eyed senior. Perhaps the feline origin lent his gaze an extra edge, eyes round and bright—his vision matched that of a cat. Contrary to myth, cats aren’t truly colorblind. He could distinguish most hues, his eyesight as acute as ever.

Twenty minutes passed—his answer sheet remained blank.

Han Ruibai in front was already well into the back page.

He finally wrote his name.

Most questions made no sense, and he resigned himself to this fate.

His desk mate, terrified of being outscored, covered his answers fiercely with his left arm.

Yan Jiyun: “…”

Why would a music student care whether I outscore him in a theory exam?

Still thinking through his next move, he saw—for the first time—a “cheater” called out not by the teacher, but by an NPC classmate.

“Teacher, Liu Ke is cheating—copying my answers!”

Yan Jiyun: “…”

The teacher strode over and tore up player Liu Ke’s paper, adding, deadpan, “I already said: no cheating. Why can’t you listen?”

“If any of you notice someone cheating, do the right thing and report it. I’m doing this for you; no one cheats on college entrance exams, do they?”

Liu Ke seemed to have received a system notification as well. He took it calmly, shrugging.

Now it made sense—not just the teacher, but ordinary classmates were “monitors” as well. No wonder his desk mate had so fiercely shielded his test. Had he tried to copy, he’d have been the next to be reported.

Thanks to his seatmate’s mercy!

Yan Jiyun did not assume his desk mate was kind—maybe he’d overheard Yan and Han Ruibai whispering earlier. If he really started copying, would the seatmate instantly rat him out? Not to mention, his front, back, and sides were all surrounded by NPCs—he was isolated by design.

Suddenly, Han Ruibai stopped, shifted left, then subtly flipped his paper faceup and slid it right.

It was plain now: Han definitely wasn’t a player—he’d echoed the system’s expectations.

Feigning nonchalance, Yan Jiyun began copying.

If the teacher looked his way, he spun his pen; otherwise, he wrote furiously, memorizing answers, then scribbling them down.

Page one done, he tapped Han’s back, signaling for another page.

But then, Han’s desk mate raised his hand. “Teacher! Yan Jiyun and Han Ruibai are cheating!”

The teacher strode over, ready to rip their test sheets, but Yan Jiyun intercepted him, feigning bewilderment. “Teacher, I don’t understand why this classmate is accusing me.”

Han Ruibai’s deskmate said, “I heard everything! You two planned to cheat before the test even started—you said Han would finish first so you could copy.”

Yan Jiyun replied, “Teacher, you can check our papers if you like.”

The teacher compared them, then handed them back with a heavy look. “Focus on your work.”

Yan Jiyun reclaimed his paper.

Damn—even Han’s desk mate was a landmine.

Luckily, he’d written fast and not copied exactly.

Cheating wasn’t glamorous—but he knew how to cheat wisely.

Wait—the desk mate wasn’t an NPC. Normal NPCs, after denouncing a classmate, didn’t wear that little, interested smirk.

He’d tsked regretfully. Yan Jiyun realized this was a player—someone deliberately targeting him.

A player, acting as an NPC, experimenting to see if he could profit by ratting out others—the test failed this time.

Yan Jiyun hadn’t expected to be a guinea pig right out of the gate. He memorized this player’s face; from now on, he’d keep well away.

As the bell rang, the ordeal ended—he’d survived the examination.

But grades remained, as ever, the biggest worry; may he pass.

Glancing at his experience card—another forty-five minutes burned—he winced.

The farther he advanced, the faster these cards vanished.

Another ten-minute break. He was just about to head out looking for the others when he noticed all the NPCs clutching music textbooks and moving downstairs.

He checked the class schedule taped to his desk.

Next—and final—period of the day: Vocal class.

Damn it. For a tone-deaf guy, what business had he in vocal class? Maybe he could just skip it…