Cat 130: The Cat’s True Form Shrinks

Chapter 130: The Cat’s True Form Shrinks

Yan Jiyun couldn’t see his test score in the system yet—it looked like the teacher would have to grade them first before results appeared.

After being reported by another player, his player identity was all but exposed. No one here was a fool.

When he’d entered, there were fifty players. Now there were a hundred—he guessed fifty had been merged from another instance, but what tier they hailed from was anyone’s guess. These were not easy opponents; they were either aggressive and quick to strike, or patient and calculating. The player who ratted him out fit the former type, doing experiments from the very start to seek out the optimal way to play this instance.

Facing either NPCs or players now, Yan Jiyun had to remain on high alert.

He’d already dealt with high-level players in the finals—they didn’t care if you were a newbie or a veteran. If an unfamiliar player could be exploited to their benefit, they’d pull any trick, even if it cost someone their life. In this game, murder wasn’t a crime.

Who knew what would happen in the upcoming vocal class? The anxiety gnawed at him yet again.

He had a sneaking suspicion: there were probably more players hiding in the class, biding their time just like Han Ruibai’s desk mate.

No more carelessness now.

The class monitor warned everyone: “Don’t be late for Mr. Qu’s class. Otherwise, you’ll answer for it.”

Yan Jiyun wanted to use the ten-minute break to look for Gu Wenzhu and Qiu Xi.

But the main quest demanded focus. They weren’t greenhorns—they’d be able to handle themselves.

He quickly caught up with the crowd. Judging by the monitor’s warning, being late for this lesson was bound to spell trouble.

But if he obediently followed the game curriculum, how would he explore or pursue plot hooks? Why was a high school instance named “Mermaid” anyway? What did it really signify?

Since the intermediate tier, the real substance behind every instance name had grown harder to predict.

The top priority now was not being led around by the nose. If he followed the school schedule flawlessly, he’d waste an entire day in class. He didn’t come here to attend school—unless the plot clues were woven into the lessons themselves.

His mind spun with possibilities. With unfamiliar, possibly hostile players all around—and just having sidestepped a pitfall—he felt some aversion to sharing information. Who knew what tricks the others held up their sleeves?

His in-game persona was a voice major—and a star student besides. If he got called out and failed to sing well, would the teacher single him out?

He’d managed to borrow answers for the last exam with Han Ruibai’s help, but there’d be no getting someone else to sing in his place.

Right now, Yan Jiyun felt a prickling numbness on his scalp and started plotting ways to slip out of class.

But then again, could the vocal lesson be linked to the “Mermaid” theme? After all, the legendarily enchanting voice of the mermaid is just such a symbol—perhaps the singer in class would turn out to be the “mermaid.”

Every player in his class filed into the vocal music room.

It was housed in the rear building of the campus, separate from the main classrooms.

Inside, various instruments gleamed. At the piano sat a young voice teacher—a man with shoulder-length hair, tall and striking, maybe twenty-five or -six, handsome and smiling gently as he waited for his students.

One thing stood out: as students from the last class left, Yan Jiyun noticed several emerging with faces pale as paper, some even clutching their mouths and dashing for the restroom, nearly sick.

He counted—his class had thirty people, but that exiting class numbered only twenty-five.

Whatever had happened, Yan Jiyun tried not to speculate too deeply.

This Mr. Qu was not to be underestimated. Possibly a ruthlessly designed NPC.

He noticed quite a few players hesitating at the doorway, nerves fizzling. He himself felt a little trepidation—at first he’d hoped to find plot hooks here, but what would this class really bring?

Regardless, he played it cool and walked in as though he’d seen nothing amiss.

Other players followed his lead and entered too. He couldn’t help but wonder: was he a player or a native student?

Last time he’d taken music in high school, it was just a stress-relief class—this was going to be a whole other world.

Unlike ordinary classrooms, this one featured a seat and music stand for each.

He remembered their major. As expected, it was all about voice.

The teacher stood tall, with a posture and style that could turn heads for miles.

If he’d had a teacher like that during his own school days, he imagined the girls would have swooned en masse.

Yan Jiyun quietly took a back-row spot—by chance, right next to Han Ruibai.

He whispered, “If I claim a stomach ache, what’ll the teacher do?”

Han Ruibai shot him a suspicious look. “You planning to skip class?”

Yan Jiyun lowered his voice, “Keep it down. Honestly, I just don’t want to be here today.”

“Unless you actually faint, Mr. Qu never lets anyone leave class,” came the reply.

“Alright,” Yan Jiyun sighed, “So what’s today’s lesson?”

Han Ruibai spread his score. “Probably vocal practice.”

Indeed, the sheet music on Yan Jiyun’s stand fit the voice major curriculum; the system had been thorough—but that only made him more anxious.

The bell rang; Yan Jiyun composed himself, trying not to stand out.

The front seats were packed with girls enraptured by the teacher’s looks—nearly all NPCs. Players gravitated to the back.

As the lesson began, every player in the room seemed ready to snap.

The teacher’s gentle smile lit up his face, casting the girls in a daze—while the players in the back grew icy with dread.

Mr. Qu announced, “Today we’ll study a new song.”

Every player, Yan Jiyun included, felt a jolt of foreboding.

He glanced at Han Ruibai, who shrugged—he was just as lost about the change in lesson plan.

“The music is on page two,” said Mr. Qu. “Turn to it now.”

Yan Jiyun dutifully opened his score: “Song of Meow.” The entire page was just “meow, meow, meow, meow…” over and over. His eyes nearly crossed at the sight.

The class burst out laughing. Someone asked, “Why this song, teacher?”

Implied: shouldn’t we have something more challenging?

Mr. Qu chuckled, “It’s a popular internet piece lately. Just a bit of fun—no need to stress today.”

NPCs smiled; players grimaced.

Players: “No way is this easier—it’s just as daunting.”

Then Mr. Qu added, “You have ten minutes to learn it. After that, I’ll begin random checks.”

Yan Jiyun: “…” How was this “fun”?

So that’s why Qi Feng had a piano at home. In this game, survival depended on everything: scholarship, combat, arts, music, even archery—eighteen talents and more. Plus, mastery of astronomy and geography for good measure.

There were lyrics and sheet music. For a voice major, this was child’s play—but for a musically illiterate player, it was a death sentence.

Yan Jiyun could recite “meow meow meow,” sure. But melody? Impossible.

Mr. Qu instructed, “Begin practicing!”

“Random checks” meant anything.

He didn’t linger at the piano—Mr. Qu strolled among them, raising the tension higher and higher.

The room filled with “meowing.”

Han Ruibai, a model student, practiced diligently. Yan Jiyun just mimed along, lips moving soundlessly, faking effort.

Mr. Qu seemed content with the chorus of meows.

Yan Jiyun followed suit, his meows coming out suspiciously natural—if only cats didn’t sing, he’d be fine.

He recalled that the class monitor had specified only, “Don’t be late.” No one had said not to slip out during the lesson.

He glanced at his seat by the window. The room was so wide that making for the window would be all too obvious.

And this was the third floor—leaping out would break his legs.

Five minutes left in the allotted rehearsal.

As Mr. Qu approached, Yan Jiyun boldly raised his hand: “Teacher, I’m not feeling well. May I use the restroom?”

Mr. Qu gazed at him for two seconds, warm as ever. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir.” Yan Jiyun feigned clutching his stomach, made a quick exit, and wore a mask of sincerity.

Other players: “…”

Damn, he beat us to it.

The teacher would believe one “sick” student, but let two or three leave in quick succession and suspicion would flare.

No one else had noticed the monitor’s loophole—that you couldn’t be late, but nothing was said about slipping out mid-class.

Too late now. Curse it.

His leaving did not interrupt the chorus of “meows” in the classroom.

Lucky for him, the others didn’t spot the loophole before he returned; he’d seized a narrow window and escaped.

In the corridor, Yan Jiyun eyed his experience card. Only a minute left—he waited on the stairs for the timer to run out, ready to revert to cat form.

If he kept up this human charade, he’d have to maintain all the roleplay. Becoming a cat might free him from the restrictions—or so he hoped. This was another experiment of his: would the system restrict him in cat shape?

He’d burned an hour’s worth of card time just getting this far.

When the timer ran out, Yan Jiyun shifted into black cat form in the empty stairwell.

He meant to sneak off and eavesdrop on class, but just as he set a paw down, he noticed his vision—

Looking down, he realized even his beautiful, fluffy paws had changed.

Had the system not only de-aged his human form, but his cat body too?

He’d become a six-month-old kitten, body not fully grown!

Damn rotten system, so petty—the body and strength of a six-month-old couldn’t compare to an adult cat.

He’d worked so hard to achieve full growth, only to be sent back to square one.

[“Want To Be Human” Livestream Room:]

“Hahahaha, look at our kitty! He shrank! Now I really feel like I’m raising a virtual cat. Any cat experts see what age he’s reverted to?”

“That’s definitely a kitten now—totally underage. Makes sense with the school setting.”

“I’ve never kept a cat, but you can see the difference even compared to before. I bet he’s only five or six months old. Still, he’s a hefty kitten—even at that age he’d outweigh some adult cats.”

“Wait, the cat shrank—but did anyone notice the instance is rated Level 4? That’s advanced mode, isn’t it?”

“Holy crap, I didn’t realize until you pointed it out. He’s barely played a few rounds and already he’s in the high-level circuit?!”

“He must’ve had the points to move up, right? But with a brain like his, he’d never choose advanced mode unless the system forced him. Yet the system’s been stable for years…”

“I think it’s the system’s doing.”

“What’s this round even about? All I see is ‘Mermaid’ and I wonder if the cat will eat one. Am I broken?”

“Tsk tsk tsk, Level 4 mode—the difficulty here is serious. I remember the main quest is to find the best-singing mermaid, and the boss in this round is legendarily cruel.”

“I don’t see it—Mr. Qu looks gentle and handsome. Right up my alley!”

“Heh. This is a Level 4 hard mode. Just keep watching—there are surprises coming.”

Yan Jiyun had not yet sensed the hidden “surprise” chat was alluding to, but he was deeply worried about his current body.

A smaller form meant slower escape.

He hadn’t realized age regression would carry through to cat form. Even with the system bugging out, the tiny details still gave him no loopholes.

At least he could find chances to re-cat in this instance.

His 1.5 million finals points had bought just twenty-five hours of experience cards; with a seven-day instance, he could only use his human shape sparingly—a mere three hours per day.

That wouldn’t cut it, especially in Level 4 hard mode.

If he had to sit in class all day as a student, he’d be eliminated in two.

He still didn’t really know who was who in his class. Inside, meowing continued without end.

He heard the door swing open, the crisp sound of hard-soled shoes echoing down the corridor, heading toward the restroom.

Yan Jiyun’s heart jumped. Was Mr. Qu coming to look for him?

No way could he let the teacher get to the restroom. He had to distract him.

Mr. Qu would come back for a random check in ten minutes, so that was his event timer.

Yan Jiyun hid on the stairs and meowed softly.

He barely managed not to roll his eyes—the system had even regressed his voice to that of a young kitten. He kept his call soft—just enough to get noticed; loud noises would only bring trouble.

Sure enough, Mr. Qu paused, footsteps coming precisely toward the stairs.

The sunlight streamed bright through the school window. With nowhere to hide, Yan Jiyun retreated to the landing, peeking out to make sure the teacher could see him without catching him outright.

Mr. Qu caught sight of him.

Yan Jiyun shrank back, playing the weak, helpless kitten.

He didn’t hear the teacher descend, but soon, the rhythm of hard shoes sounded again; this time, Mr. Qu returned to class.

Yan Jiyun let out a quiet breath. Safe for now.

Back inside, class fell silent. Mr. Qu had caught two would-be escapees at the windows—one of them being Han Ruibai’s desk mate.

Mr. Qu gently asked, “Do you really hate my teaching so much?”

Yan Jiyun heard the window close and crept closer to the classroom to spy on what happened next.

After all, it paid to keep track of who was who—he couldn’t rely on guesswork.

He didn’t expect the game to hand him the protagonist at the start, anyway.

How could Mr. Qu recapture two adult players so easily? This was just a music teacher—how could he possibly outmaneuver them?

Hiding outside, Yan Jiyun observed.

With all teachers in their classes, the halls were empty—he could crouch by the door without worry.

Inside, the two recaptured players sat quietly.

Mr. Qu returned to the piano, speaking softly as he picked names: “Jiang Si, you first. Sing the first measure.”

Jiang Si, clearly a player, stood shakily. Of course Mr. Qu wouldn’t waste his random check on an NPC.

Every player realized they’d all be picked sooner or later—it was just a matter of when.

Jiang Si, nervous, just managed to meow out the first line.

Mr. Qu let him sit. “Barely passable.” Then he picked the next: “And you—the one who tried to skip.”

This time, Mr. Qu stepped off the piano bench.

Anyone trying to escape had to be as tone-deaf as Yan Jiyun.

Players didn’t join for the story, after all—they were here for clues. Fleeing was natural—Yan Jiyun had done the same, so he understood.

The called player didn’t even try; he shouted, “Screw this! I can’t do it, whatever!”

He bolted for the door—but Mr. Qu was faster, lightly gripping his shoulder.

The player struggled, but found himself helpless against the teacher’s grip.

Mr. Qu smiled sweetly. “You hate my class so much?”

The player fumed, “Who cares about singing? I can’t do it!”

Mr. Qu didn’t grow angry. “If you can’t, I can teach you. But spewing filth from your mouth isn’t right—if you don’t value your voice, there’s no need to keep it. Since it’s useless, let’s discard it now.”

Before the player could even raise a tool, Mr. Qu’s fingers closed on his throat. With a twist, the player went limp—a stiff, lifeless body.

A hush fell over the players; the NPCs seemed utterly oblivious. The second would-be escapee turned a ghostly white.

It became clear: there was no escaping from open doors or windows.

Mr. Qu’s gentle demeanor masked a cruel streak. Despite everyone’s guard, who could have imagined he’d snap a student’s neck with such slender fingers, leaving not a drop of blood behind?

With a soft laugh, he spun the fishbone ring on his finger. “My job is to teach and nurture. Yours is to listen to your teacher. Understood?”

He said the gentlest words and did the cruelest deeds.

Eavesdropping, Yan Jiyun shrank in terror, tail drooping low.

How terrifying. Thank goodness he’d slipped out early.

The corpse vanished quickly. Mr. Qu seemed not to care in the slightest.

He continued, “Let’s move on. Who’s next?”

Yan Jiyun was hoping to hear an NPC sing, but so far all Mr. Qu had done was call player names.

“Han Ruibai.”

Wait—

Aha, an NPC.

Yan Jiyun paused, legs drawn back, hesitating to wander off again—he needed to see if Mr. Qu called NPCs too.

What would Han sound like?

Singing “meow meow meow” as a non-major—how embarrassing.

Yet Han Ruibai sang perfectly, calm and sure. Mr. Qu praised him, “Well done, your pitch is solid. Now add a little emotion, watch your phrasing—make it even better.”

He clearly liked Han Ruibai, giving detailed pointers. Han repeated the phrase, and even a musical novice like Yan Jiyun could hear the difference.

So Mr. Qu did know his craft—no wonder he was so merciless with troublemakers.

He called two more players after that; fortunately, they passed.

Yan Jiyun knew he’d never get through. He listened to the whole class outside.

Through the entire period, he never once heard Mr. Qu praise anyone’s voice as the best, or single out a favorite.

Then the bell rang. Other classes let out; Mr. Qu didn’t run overtime.

But abruptly at the end: “What’s the name of the sick student?”

The class monitor replied loudly, “It’s Yan Jiyun, teacher.”

Mr. Qu nodded, “Very well. I’ll remember. Next time, let’s have him sing the whole song for the class.”

Yan Jiyun, already halfway down the stairs, nearly tripped.

Thanks for nothing, class monitor.

At that moment, a system message popped up.

[Congratulations, player! Hidden quest triggered: Mr. Qu’s Wrath.]

[Quest details: Mr. Qu despises class-skippers most of all. Please calm his anger before next class, or suffer the consequences~]

Yan Jiyun: “…”

All things considered, he’d done nothing—how did he trigger a hidden quest?

How could Mr. Qu be so two-faced? He’d just killed someone, but a student can’t skip class?

[“Want To Be Human” Livestream Room:]

“OMG, the streamer triggered ‘Mr. Qu’s Wrath.’ That’s not an easy quest; it’s extremely rare. Everyone knows Mr. Qu is a classic yandere.”