Cat 172: The Memory Scene

Chapter 172: The Memory Scene

Why was Yan Jiyun so certain the ghost would appear in the classroom building?

Of course, it was something he’d deduced—and in fact, it was not difficult to understand.

He had combined the information from all three scenarios, and, having understood how this one worked, it was only natural for him to find Teacher Qu.

If you divided Teacher Qu’s conscious world into levels from top to bottom, there would be three: the first is the surface “Mermaid” scenario, serving as an introduction and revealing what makes Teacher Qu exceptional; the second is the intermediate layer, the “Innocence Without Bounds” scenario, which offers insight into Teacher Qu’s character and the origins of his life, requiring players to discover his dissociative identity through their own efforts; and the third, deepest layer, is where the ultimate answer lies—the place they can most truly reach the heart of Teacher Qu’s split.

To put it more plainly: entering Teacher Qu’s conscious world is like peeling an onion, removing its outer layers one by one until even what lies inside is exposed. Now, they’d reached the core. If they could resolve the root cause behind Teacher Qu’s persistent dissociation, he would finally awaken.

Yan Jiyun had always known what problem he needed to solve.

He’d expected the scenario to be challenging, but by the fifth day, the truth had nearly surfaced.

Though still physically unwell, his “Didi climbing substitute” diligently carried him up the stairs.

Ci Shen himself didn’t understand why he’d consented to hold a little stray cat—though, admittedly, it looked clean.

Yan Jiyun’s reason for going upstairs was that Qi Feng had finished preparing: the players were all trying to lure out the ghost.

The truth behind Su Xiran’s death had been uncovered—now, they needed to investigate the ghost’s demise. As for Ghost No. 2, Yan saw her as a red herring born of Teacher Qu’s split; if she didn’t share a face with Qu Wanqiao, he might have been fooled.

Filming was the best way to draw out the ghost.

The site had moved to the third floor, and Yan Jiyun had scenes to shoot there. Convincing Ci Shen to come was already a success.

Upon reaching the third floor, he took advantage of Ci Shen’s inattention to jump down and darted into a nearby classroom.

Ci Shen made no move to look for the cat; instead, he was drawn in by the scene before him.

The room looked unremarkable—just another senior classroom, books piled on the desks.

Next up was a memory scene from high school, recently added in by the oily Director Jiang. With his expanded role, Si Hao suddenly trembled—he was the star of this sequence, playing the ghost who would terrify everyone, with far more camera time than before.

In a classroom two doors down, Yan Jiyun reverted to human form and rejoined the group.

The reason he didn’t appear as a cat was simple: Qi Feng wasn’t stupid—one sniff and he’d pick up Yan’s medicinal scent. No matter how far-fetched, he’d realize something was off, and either suspect “the new owner” or deduce a connection to “Caramel.” However bizarre, the latter was the truth.

Their simultaneous entry to this scenario had been an accident; best to clear it first and discuss the rest later.

Though Director Jiang was a concealed personality, he was competent at his job. Seeing Yan’s arrival, he signaled for preparation—without any sign of ill-will.

Qi Feng, relieved to see Yan Jiyun after his night-long absence, felt a weight lift off his heart.

Yan Jiyun made his way to Qi Feng’s side, feigning the act of revisiting lines. Passing by Qu Wanqiao, he noticed his trembling fingers and his upside-down script—no doubt in disbelief over Jiang’s resurrection and fearful of retaliation.

It struck Yan Jiyun how ruthless these personalities were with one another: you can’t stand to see me succeed; I can’t stand to see you alive. You can do well, just not better than me.

They were about to shoot the next segment. Qi Feng seized a moment to whisper, “Any new discoveries?”

Ci Shen and Yan appearing together meant there was news.

No surprise from a high-level player—he spotted the issue at once.

Without looking up from his script, Yan Jiyun silently shared the new Main Task 7 with his team—enough for them to understand. But he said to Qi Feng: “I’ve found Teacher Qu’s primary personality.”

Qi Feng answered confidently, “It’s Ci Shen.”

Yan Jiyun raised a brow. “That was quick.”

Qi Feng replied, “You two appeared together. Too coincidental.”

Yan Jiyun said, “Primary personality found, but we still need all of Teacher Qu’s personalities. Details are unknown, but I’ve sent you the task.”

Qi Feng guessed, “Seven in all.”

Yan Jiyun: “Because of the seven dolls in the nightmare?”

Qi Feng: “That’s my current theory.”

Yan replied, “Mine lines up with yours.” Sighting Director Jiang, he quickly asked, “Did the script change again?”

Qi Feng nodded. “Yes.”

Yan Jiyun: “This isn’t the original oily Jiang—he’s switched personalities.”

Qi Feng: “I used to think he was possessed, but that’s not it.”

Yan: “There’s only one real ghost—the one we need to help.”

Qi Feng: “The first ghost to appear?”

Yan nodded, “Right. Have you found anything new?”

After a brief silence, Qi Feng said, “She lingered on the third floor near dawn—we all saw it. She didn’t attack; maybe her powers were waning, maybe she was lost in thought, or maybe this place has special meaning.”

Yan pointed at the classroom, “Here, on the third floor?”

Qi Feng nodded, “Yes. Now that you say Jiang’s changed personalities, his intent is clear.”

Yan finished his thought: “He wants to heighten the primary’s pain to force him forward and destroy him.”

Qi Feng: “And you provided Ci Shen.”

Yan: “What a coincidence.”

Who would have thought the oily Jiang’s plan would suit them so perfectly? His plot was to provoke the ghost, while theirs was to get her to help resolve Teacher Qu’s inner turmoil.

This scenario really blended too many unnecessary elements—likely a side effect of clashing personalities.

Suddenly, Ci Shen approached, as if wanting to speak, but Director Jiang walked over, calling Yan and Qi Feng by name.

Oily Jiang: “You’re both essential for this scene—don’t let me down.”

Yan wasn’t very fond of this Jiang, but nodded perfunctorily, exchanging a look with Qi Feng before sitting down.

This was a memory scene: the script’s heroine, before her death, was cruelly mocked by classmates. Yan and Qi Feng played her peers; fail to act as the ghost wished, and she would mercilessly punish them.

Yan turned to ask Qi Feng, “What if the ghost really attacks us? We can’t really follow the script to the letter, can we?”

Qi Feng whispered, “Of course not. Just like when we filmed that romantic scene—however we act, as long as we exit the space, the shot is done.”

Yan: “But our real goal is to uncover how the ghost died. By the way, what about Su Xiran?”

Qi Feng gave a concise account of Su Xiran’s death.

It turned out that, despite her wholesome reputation, Su Xiran made arrangements for wealthy men and minor actresses who couldn’t catch a break. Over time, this became an industry; someone took things too far, resulting in the death of the second female lead’s older sister. The only reason she trusted Su Xiran, a senior from the same school, was due to this shared background. But, never expecting betrayal, once the truth came out, she plunged from a villa high-rise.

With the villa’s seclusion and someone deliberately covering up, the case was closed as an accidental fall while drunk.

The second lead, upon learning she and Su Xiran would work together, decided to take revenge. Seizing the opportunity of “October First,” a school legend, she lured Su Xiran to the roof with a message and pushed her off.

That was the whole story.

Yan asked Qi Feng, “And what about Su Jingran, the girl who looks like Su Xiran?”

Before Qi Feng could reply, oily Jiang called, “No more whispering, you two—everyone get ready!”

Oily Jiang: “ACTION!”

The entire cast snapped into character. As this was a memory scene, the director roped in plenty of players as extras; the whole team was swept up. Yan Jiyun felt—for once—fully confident in this supernatural scenario.

With numbers on their side, there was nothing to fear!

[Player has triggered side task: Memoirs of the Ghost.]

[Task details: Please uncover the cause of the ghost’s suicide.]

[Reminder: This side task is closely linked to the main storyline. Please complete within 1 hour. Failure will result in a deduction of game time.]

Yan Jiyun: “…”

The ghost’s memory had become a side quest?

What could they achieve in an hour?

Could they make the ghost talk in such a short time?

The timing was impeccable; this was the crucial key to untangling Teacher Qu’s trauma.

The temperature in the classroom dropped; lights flickered and sizzled. Playing the ghost, Si Hao suddenly froze, his cosmetic face distorting, his neck jerking as if he could barely stand.

Yan Jiyun: “…”

That had to be literal possession.

Had oily Jiang deliberately cast Si Hao as the ghost? No other actor’s face would withstand this kind of supernatural strain. At least it proved Si Hao was not part of Teacher Qu’s personality cluster—he was just a tool to be used as they wished.

Yan didn’t hear any air-conditioning buzzing. Su Xiran’s death only triggered the October First jump, but the real case was the ghost’s, now relegated to a side task for unknown reasons.

At last, the ghost appeared!

He’d been on edge since entering this scenario, never as excited as he was now, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

This time, the ghost had grown shrewder—opting for possession directly, and, using a male host, it was downright eerie.

The ghost took control of every player, speaking in Si Hao’s voice: “From this moment, no one leaves without my permission!”

A bold player asked, “What do you want?”

All the temporary actors here were the remaining players.

“Si Hao” laughed wildly. “I want to play a game with you.”

They had only an hour to learn the cause of death—playing games was hardly fair.

Lan Mo, ever brash, asked directly, “What game?”

“Si Hao” giggled: “Truth or dare. We high schoolers love it.”

Yan hadn’t played truth or dare in ages; these days, gatherings were either murder mysteries or frisbee, the former sedentary, the latter all about teamwork and athleticism.

Aside from the players, no other NPCs were trapped here.

While the ghost was distracted, Yan Jiyun leaned over to ask Qi Feng, “How do we get the truth out of her in one hour?”

Qi Feng: “She said she played truth or dare in high school.”

Yan: “Connected to her death?”

Qi Feng: “Not necessarily.”

Yan: “Then we’ll steer the questions to get her to talk about it?”

Qi Feng: “Yes—but we’ll need to control the game.”

Yan raised an eyebrow. “If we can’t beat her, let her join the game instead.”

Before Qi Feng could analyze the pros and cons, Yan joined in, raising his hand. “It’s only fun if we all play.”

“Si Hao” fixed his twisted face on Yan, approvingly. “I like your idea. Games are more fun together.”

In her hand was a sheet of A4 paper, which she swiftly folded into a paper airplane.

Perched on the podium, “Si Hao” curled his lip. “Whoever it lands on answers my question.”

Gu Wenzhu: “And then that person comes up, and gets to be the next to throw?”

“Si Hao”: “Great idea—so I can play with you, too.”

She tossed the plane.

Most of the players prayed it wouldn’t land in front of them.

“Si Hao” watched the airplane with an ominous smile, clearly able to control its flight.

Yan deliberately turned to speak with Qi Feng, making sure the ghost noticed. Just as it seemed ready to fall on a terrified player, the airplane swerved and landed on Yan’s desk.

He feigned a look of terror, clutching the plane exaggeratedly. “Wh-why me?”

Other players: No wonder he’s the game’s “female lead”—that acting is way over the top.

“Si Hao” lifted his pointy chin smugly. “Why not? You answer my question.”

Yan feigned shrinking fright, which seemed to please the ghost immensely.

He stammered, “W-what do you want to ask?”

Gu Wenzhu, catching the cue, was ready to take over the game once Yan held that paper plane.

“Si Hao” cocked her head, almost folding it entirely onto her shoulder—her head nearly separating from her body; the horror factor remained unchanged.

And with feigned innocence, “Si Hao” asked: “Truth or dare?”

Yan replied with a clear conscience, “Truth.” Truth was quicker.

“Si Hao”: “Did you ever want to kill a girl you liked in high school?”

Yan: “No, I didn’t like any girls back then.”

A very pointed question—“kill a girl you liked” was key.

“Si Hao” scrutinized him but saw no sign of a lie.

Yan said, “Now it’s my turn to throw.”

“Si Hao” hesitated but raised no objection, not realizing control had slipped. With the game just started, no punishments, she simply watched this “boy”—even more innocent-looking than herself—prepare for his throw.

Yan walked to the front and surveyed the room. “How about we spice it up? Everyone close your eyes—wherever the airplane lands, that’s who goes.”

“Si Hao” clapped. “Great idea—you’re really speaking my language.”

Of course, Yan thought. Doing it this way prevented her from directing the plane herself.

He followed “Si Hao’s” lead, murmuring: “Night falls—close your eyes.” Changing the rules was so simple.

“Si Hao” closed her eyes fastest of all.

Yan: “Here goes.”

Yan: “Morning—open your eyes.”

In the blink of an eye, the paper plane landed on “Si Hao’s” desk.

Yan exclaimed, “Wow, it landed in front of you!”

Just as she tried to silently control the paper as before, she realized too late: only Yan and Qi Feng knew the trick. Instead of using the original, Yan had swapped in his own airplane, handing the real one to Qi Feng. At “morning—open your eyes,” Qi tossed it before her; easily done, given his skills.

It was a product of seamless teamwork—requiring Qi’s complete and unconditional trust in Yan, and Yan’s faith in Qi’s ability.

The plane in Yan’s hand, he simply gave to Qiu Xi in the front row, letting him quietly tuck it away.

A result born of cooperation.

There was no way Yan could have accomplished this alone. Together, they’d put one over on “Si Hao.”

The ghost suspected nothing. The transition from eyes-closed to eyes-open was so swift she never noticed the ruse beneath her nose.

Yan gave her no time to reflect, pressing his advantage: “Why did you jump from the roof on October first?”

“Si Hao”—the ghost—seemed at a loss; clearly, no one had asked in a long time. “Because they always called me stupid, that I was less than—”

Yan pressed, “Less than what?”

She suddenly realized, standing abruptly: “Wait, why didn’t you ask Truth or Dare?”

Yan feigned embarrassment: “Sorry, I was so scared I forgot.”

Now, she saw his expression held no fear—a surge of anger flared, and she raised her hand as if to strangle him. But her movement was abruptly arrested—she had overlooked Qi Feng, sitting behind her, who had looped a cord around her neck, trapping her in place.

Lan Mo, seated closest, lifted a chair, wedging it firmly under “Si Hao’s” upper arms. Shi Yan locked her legs with another chair, pinning her to the wall.

“Si Hao” bared her teeth. “Let me go.”

Yan, weary, sat on the nearest desk and said, “We only want the truth—no harm will come to you.”

“Si Hao” sneered. “You think you can control me?”

In a flash, her body went limp. Lan Mo and Shi Yan instantly discarded their chairs; one drew a peach-wood sword, the other brandished a talisman. Yan, in turn, drew his crucifix from his chest.

Windows slammed open, and winds howled—pulling everyone toward the ledge!

A chill voice floated through the gale: “Survive for three minutes and I’ll tell you the truth!”

Yan clung to the podium’s edge, wind stinging his face. The ghost, enraged, clearly wouldn’t be yielding anything.

They’d have to try another way.

In desperation, a name flashed through his mind: “Su Jingran—how long has it been since anyone called you that?”

Suddenly, the wind ceased. The ghost appeared, startlingly close—it nearly killed him by proximity.

In white, with ashen face, her eyes black-ringed and nearly white, she was terrifying even with preparation—Yan’s heart pounded in his chest.

She looked him up and down. “You’re not like the others.”

Yan responded, “I am different. Look, I’m a high schooler, like you—they’re all adults.”

Seeing her doubt, he took off his jacket, revealing a school uniform embroidered with “Mingya High School.”

She stared, enunciating each word, “Ming. Ya. High. School. Are you my classmate?”

Yan shook his head. “No—I was swept up here by accident. I’m a third-year at Mingya, from a parallel world.” He never thought his student identity would help gain the ghost’s trust.

With a sweep of her arms, the world melted away until only she and Yan Jiyun remained, lost in nostalgia.

She drew close, seeking connection. “Tell me—what’s special about Mingya High now?”

Yan fought his terror. “Our school’s famous for music. Our music teacher is Qu, Qu Wanqiao. Do you know him?”

She paused—“Qu Wanqiao?”

The name seemed to unlock a cascade of memories.

[Ding. Congratulations, player, you have triggered the ghost girl’s recollections. Entering her memory in 3 seconds.]

Yan Jiyun: “…”

Could he please not go in?