Cat 173: Too Hasty

Chapter 173: Too Hasty

The answer was no.

Yan Jiyun, in his identity as a high school student, was pulled alone into Mingya High School as it had been ten years ago.

Whose world was this? He guessed it couldn’t belong to the ghost; it could only be Teacher Qu’s.

He remembered that his task was to uncover the truth behind the ghost’s suicide within an hour.

But now, having entered the memory scene, would time flow at the same rate as in his task?

The system clock was still ticking; the countdown remained. Clearly, entering the memory world alone didn’t slow time down.

What a stingy system.

[Want To Be Human] Livestream Room:

“Hahaha, I knew it! When Cat Cub was the only one left shining here, I just knew she’d catch the ghost’s eye!”

“Why is it that Cat Cub’s the only special one? All other players are stuck outside.”

“Because he’s Cat Cub. After ‘Innocence’ ended, he’s been a standout. The class monitor gave him a gift. Coming back with his high school student identity in this scenario was basically giving him a backdoor. At first, it seemed unfair to him: everyone else returns to their normal selves, and he’s stuck with a student face. But now you see, Teacher Qu opened the biggest backdoor for him—without this face, I bet nobody could’ve entered Teacher Qu’s memory event.”

“That was a great analysis! Feels like Cat Cub’s signature game logic—if he triggers it, there’s always a new quest, and somehow it’s always aimed at him! Can’t tell if he’s lucky or unlucky.”

“Probably not too lucky, not too unlucky either—truly a cat chosen by fate. Has anyone actually seen this Mingya High School 2.0 scenario?”

“No one’s seen it yet, I think. If it’s cleared, do you think Mingya High 1.0 and 2.0 both get closed down? The secret’s out.”

And so Yan Jiyun was thrust back into Mingya High School days, only this time, he was an observer, not a player with tasks to complete.

His perspective was bound to the main character—there was nothing he needed to do.

But whose viewpoint was he experiencing? The ghost’s? Or another NPC’s?

He couldn’t control his body, but all his senses remained, as though imprisoned inside, able to do nothing at all.

Opposite him stood a beautiful girl, her features and eyes strongly reminiscent of the young Teacher Qu. She smiled sweetly, yet had a rebellious air—faint makeup not permitted by school rules, a few colored streaks in her hair.

She clasped her hands behind her back. “Bro, don’t wait for me this afternoon. I’m leaving with classmates.”

Yan Jiyun’s head moved on its own, nodding to this blossoming girl.

Yan Jiyun’s Perspective: “Don’t come home late again, or Mom will complain.”

The girl chewed her gum, rolled her eyes. “Mom doesn’t care about me. Leave me be. Anyway, I’m not going home with you after school on Friday.”

Yan Jiyun’s Perspective: “If you put more effort into your studies, she wouldn’t get on your case.”

The girl: “You’re so annoying, bro! I’m not like you. I’m just dumb, I can’t study, I only like music. You’re quick at everything, I hate the comparisons! I’m happy being free; you be your model student.”

Yan Jiyun’s Perspective: “Fine, got it.”

He finally understood—he hadn’t entered the ghost’s memories at all, but Teacher Qu’s own. The ghost was a manifestation of Teacher Qu’s psyche, and the ghost No.2—identical to Qu Wanqiao—was a deliberate hint to the players. Ghost No.2 called Qu Wanqiao “Brother,” and the primary personality was signaling them: the event in his subconscious involved his “sister,” not romance.

Meanwhile, every other split personality’s script was full of “love” and “friendship,” but never family. The secondary personalities tried to conceal the truth, but it was family—kinship—that lay at the heart. The one who died was Teacher Qu’s sister—not girlfriend, nor friend.

Yan Jiyun’s body moved on its own; among the passing students he recognized several Mingya NPCs, friends like Han Ruibai, and other familiar classmates.

That vibrant young girl was about Han Ruibai’s age. Yan saw her class group—she was also in her final year. By that reckoning, she must have been Teacher Qu’s twin.

Hints of this truth were present as far back as the “Innocence” arc, though well hidden.

The “Innocence” chapter’s brotherhood had been too “touching”—it was hard to imagine the true secret was a twin. Yan had thought before that the one who died might be Teacher Qu’s real sister, but not a twin; it seemed his instincts were on the right track.

He kept watching from Teacher Qu’s viewpoint.

Events sped up, skipping all unnecessary detail.

Back then, Teacher Qu was a high schooler—quiet, respected as a top student by all save Han Ruibai.

He had a rebellious younger sister, but his family was clearly not rich; you could tell by his pencil case and lunchtime habits—thrifty, hardly extravagant.

After lunch, he went back to the dorm for a nap; next thing, it was afternoon classes as usual.

Teacher Qu’s mental state seemed normal. His books were neat, test scores near-perfect (except for language)—a gifted student by every measure.

That afternoon, his teacher mentioned a recommendation to one of the nation’s top universities. Teacher Qu hesitated; the school was far, requiring a day by train or several hours by plane, and his family seemed unable to afford it.

But the teacher assured him the school would cover the expenses—with the usual strings attached.

He didn’t commit, just took the application home to consider.

The teacher gave him a deadline.

He saw and heard as Teacher Qu did. Walking out, his sharp ears picked up nervous footsteps leaving ahead of them.

Who came to the office but didn’t enter?

In ten minutes, Yan saw a whole day in the life of a top student. Far from monotonous, respected by teachers, allowed free access to the lab. Passing the art room, he always gave it a second glance.

After PE, he passed the music building and saw his sister leave, unsmiling and alone, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

A near-miss. Yan could relate these glimpses to events from other scenarios.

The art room, music building, the old resentment among multiples—it all traced back to here.

The secondary personalities had twisted, yet not falsified events—just changed their color, nudged things darker. If one’s memories blur, then confusion turns repeated lies into truth, just as constant lies become their own reality.

The classroom clock spun on; time inside flew past.

Fifteen minutes before the final bell, the third-year students at study period heard a tremendous thud.

Someone peered outside and yelped.

“Holy—someone jumped!”

Instant chaos erupted across the school.

“Who was it?”

“Jumped from the sixth floor, must be a senior.”

“That’s awful, is the pressure really so much?”

“They say it was a girl!”

Such comments filled Yan’s—and Teacher Qu’s—ears.

At the same time, Yan felt Teacher Qu’s heart pounding wildly; his spirit was uneasy, unable to write another word.

Five minutes later, the homeroom teacher entered, face drawn despite her efforts to appear calm. She whispered: “Wanqiao, come with me.”

Students were used to the top student being summoned for all sorts of things; this was nothing new.

But this time, the reason wasn’t academics—it was the jump.

Yan guessed—the victim was Wanqiao’s sister.

Everything had seemed so normal. What drove her to this point?

Why that moment?

The teacher patted Wanqiao’s shoulder, saying gently, “Wanqiao, whatever happens, stay strong.”

Teacher Qu clutched his chest, heart in turmoil, legs heavy as lead with dread as they neared the first floor.

He didn’t rush to ask the teacher for the truth. He couldn’t believe it—yet couldn’t deny it.

He saw teachers covering a girl-facedown with a blanket on the ground. He darted over, almost slipping in his urgency.

He muttered, “Impossible, impossible, impossible…”

He reached the crowd, stood before the shroud, but couldn’t bring himself to lift it.

Yet no matter his courage, he already knew.

Yan observed the streaks of deep blue dyed hair poking from beneath the fabric.

It had to be Teacher Qu’s sister.

He harbored the same doubt as Teacher Qu—why?

In all the scenarios, Teacher Qu was searching for the reason behind his sister’s leap.

In the Mermaid arc, a girl jumps for love.

In ‘Innocence,’ the plot is the second brother being pushed by the eldest.

In Mingya High, the girl is killed by a jealous friend.

But none truly explain his sister’s death.

From that one compressed day in high school, Yan sensed both why she jumped and why Teacher Qu’s personality fractured.

Because of everything his family brought with it.

A mother who cherished the brother, always indifferent to the rebellious sister.

He recalled the hurried footsteps heard upon leaving the teacher’s office—surely his sister’s.

She studied music, an expensive path. Her brother, clever, aimed for a better school, so she sacrificed her own ambitions for him. All driven by tuition, all stained by a mother’s favoritism—something vital was missing from this family. The sister never hated her brother; in the end, she enabled his dreams, giving hers for his, choosing to jump.

Yan wasn’t sure if this was the real answer. For now, he didn’t know whom to pity more.

Perhaps Teacher Qu didn’t seek sympathy. He knew the truth, but refused to face it. The blow of her death was too great. Guilt and regret led to his dissociation, inventing excuses, convincing himself that his sister hadn’t died because of family.

All Yan wanted now was to sigh. In Teacher Qu’s subconscious world, you could see how unhappy the family was—whether for lack of a father or a mother, there was a crucial gap; and in the end, it was the mother. No one was truly wrong, just locked in different standpoints, different perspectives. That girl was wonderful—only unlucky in choosing her family.

When his theorizing ended, the viewpoint persisted; he could keep watching.

After the sister’s suicide, their mother appeared: a middle-aged woman caked in makeup, age visible beneath cosmetics meant to conceal it. This, too, had been a hard life.

Teacher Qu blamed himself, wracked with helplessness. If only, if only, he could have taken his sister to live in another city.

Yan tried to see more, but the vision abruptly blinked out—silence, darkness.

When he returned, the ghost girl was gone; Qi Feng was crouched in front of him, brows drawn in worry.

Keeping an outward calm, Qi Feng let Gu Wenzhu speak first: “You were gone a long time, you know.”

Yan nodded and glanced at Ci Shen, catching a small smile.

[Congratulations, player, on completing the side task ‘Memoirs of the Ghost.’ Your reward will be distributed when the scenario ends.]

The ghost was both a task and a truth delivered to them—she was not Teacher Qu’s personality, but a “memory” condensed in his subconscious, and watching Teacher Qu’s memories had opened that box at last.

Everyone was still at the filming site.

With the side task complete, only Task 7 remained: find the rest of Teacher Qu’s personalities.

But before Yan could explain how he’d cleared the ghost task, the world started to warp.

As it twisted, Ci Shen approached Director Jiang. “Stop filming. This story has no meaning. Let’s go, Jiang.”

Excitement twisted into a snarl on Jiang’s face: “You think you can just walk away, Ci Shen? I’m not letting you leave.”

Ci Shen grabbed a chair and smashed it on Jiang’s head. He said over the blood, “Out. Now.”

The other players were baffled; why were the NPCs fighting?

Jiang rose, clutching his bleeding scalp. “You’re finally awake. Still hiding secrets? Qu Wanqiao is just one part of you.”

Teacher Qu’s primary had fully awakened; this deep world was collapsing. Once he triumphed over the secondary, Yan and the others could leave.

Qu Wanqiao and Ghost No.2 suddenly moved behind Teacher Qu, while two of Jiang’s hidden personalities (one was Fem. No.3) stood with him.

How their battle went, and how they struggled, was hidden from the players.

All they saw was the world collapsing, faster and faster, as Teacher Qu stopped maintaining the dream.

Underfoot, everyone found only empty space.

The school retreated; Yan saw all the NPCs he had met, then the class monitors—they turned into points of starlight swirling together, heading for Teacher Qu.

The personalities were merging.

Wait!

Was Task 7 done?

Last of all, he saw Han Ruibai from the Mermaid arc—not sparkling like the others, but sitting behind a piano and waving at Yan Jiyun.

Then Han Ruibai began to play “The Mermaid,” a tune Yan had only ever heard Qi Feng play.

As the melody sounded, the world broke down faster. With his sharp sight, Yan saw image-fragments of Teacher Qu’s memories flying past—his truest recollections.

Teacher Qu was truly awake at last!

But why hadn’t the system told them where they’d go next?

Yan could still hear companions’ voices, but suddenly all went silent.

What was happening?

Suddenly, a blinding light appeared—Yan floated gently onto a cloud.

Huh?

Wait. He was certain his timed card hadn’t expired, but he was now back in cat form.

A tall, handsome figure dropped down before him, crouching close, examining him curiously.

The man said, “Yan Jiyun?”

Yan nearly jumped, glancing around: …Are you talking to me?

The man stooped, offering a low smile. “I promised you—I’d send you off myself if you found me. You’re impressive, disguising as a black cat in my mind. You can speak now; your bodies never truly entered my world, only your minds.”

Thank goodness—he hadn’t realized he really was the black cat!

Yan ventured a word: “We can do this? Your real name is Qu Wanqiao?”

Qu Wanqiao nodded. “Yes, that’s my real name.”

Yan: “Then please let me go; all my friends have left.”

Qu Wanqiao stroked his chin. “You’re interesting. Want to stay and keep me company?”

Yan cut that off, “You must be joking. You finally regained yourself and still want to remain in your own mind?”

Qu Wanqiao: “True. I do want to go; you understand me well.”

Yan stretched out on the cloud, recalling Han Ruibai’s “Mermaid.” “The one who truly understands you isn’t me—but your friend, Han Ruibai. He’s the one who truly woke you, with his own composition.”

Qu Wanqiao was a bit taken aback: “And how do you know it was his, not mine?”

Yan blinked: “It really wasn’t you?”

Qu Wanqiao thought Yan was teasing; he looked uneasy. “I’m only here to see you off. Just walk the rainbow bridge—that’ll lead you to the exit.”

Yan: “You like the number seven because you like rainbows.”

Qu Wanqiao seemed nostalgic. “A rainbow after rain is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Yan pondered a moment. “True.” He had many questions, but finally just offered a blessing. “Teacher Qu, live well from now on. Whatever pain there was, you’ll get through. The world is huge—go out and see more of it.”

Qu Wanqiao: “Thank you. I’ll remember your advice.”

Yan raised his shadowy little head and nodded gravely. “A promising student, indeed.”

With nothing more to say, he stepped lightly onto the rainbow bridge.

As he neared its end, Qu Wanqiao muttered behind him, “Aren’t you at all reluctant to part with your host?”

Yan slipped. “…”

I have excellent hearing—don’t say such things. I only have one host—bah, I have no host.

Just before reaching the rainbow’s end, Yan turned to call back, “Teacher Qu, thanks for the steak. It was delicious.”

Who knows if he heard; a moment later, the bridge vanished from under Yan’s paws—no sense of falling, no weightlessness, no dizziness. He found himself standing in pure light.

[Want To Be Human] Livestream Room:

sob sob Cat Cub is finishing yet another scenario. Who knows when we’ll see another stream?

Teacher Qu was so gentle—I’m in love with this multiple-personality NPC!

Can anyone tell me, does Han Ruibai like Teacher Qu?

I just want to know if the rainbow bridge means what I think!

Ahhh, cleared it—Teacher Qu kept his promise, personally seeing Cat Cub out. But now that the mood is set, it might be rude if I don’t ask: could someone lay out the backstory of this scenario?

Does it really matter what happened? The important thing is—I’m not going to see my Cub for ten days! Actually, though, the arc is easy to get: Teacher Qu couldn’t get over his sister’s suicide, so his clever mind fractured. It’s a moving story of his struggle with illness!

You really mean ten days? I want to see Cat Cub sooner, but I hope he gets well first before another scenario—see you in the next one, Cat Cub~

Yan Jiyun exited the scenario with no time penalty—and right after, the system flooded him with messages like a volcanic eruption.

[Congratulations, player, for clearing the “Mermaid” main task: “Find Teacher Qu.”]

[Congratulations, player, for having three or more full-favorability ratings with NPC Teacher Qu, unlocking the level-five scenario NPC Teacher Qu’s favorability.]

[Congratulations, player, on achieving the “clear three scenarios in a row” record, breaking the prior streak—you’ll receive a special super reward package from the system.]

[Congratulations, player, for ranking among the top 100 in livestream gift rankings.]

[Congratulations, intimacy with your host has increased by 1.]

[Congratulations, intimacy with your host has increased by 2.]

[Congratulations, intimacy with your host has increased by 10.]

[Congratulations, intimacy with your host has reached 20/100, unlocking host scenario visibility.]

[Since this scenario surpassed the original difficulty cap, you’ll receive a special bonus: your next scenario entry is delayed by ten days.]

[Would you like to open your reward package now?]

Yan had drawn a big package last time—the best item being the luck card, though he hadn’t yet used it a second time. That function was pure chance. Now, with another big reward, he decided to wait until leaving the rest zone before opening it.

He was, however, much more curious about the “host scenario visibility” just unlocked. What was that about?

All of a sudden, the rarely-heard youth-voiced system piped up: “It means that whenever your host enters a scenario, you can check his status bar anytime, anywhere.”

That meant he’d be swamped by Qi Feng’s updates from now on?

The system healed Yan’s wounds, though his cold symptoms remained; he left the scenario’s temporary rest area in human form.

Night had fallen. Mingya High 2.0 was a level-five scenario, so the exit led to a high-tier zone.

There weren’t many people about.

Delighted, Yan found a nearby alley and waited for Qi Feng and the others to emerge.

Soon enough, Qi Feng came through. Yan chose the perfect moment to dart into his arms; he sensed Qi Feng exhale in relief.

And then Qi Feng said something that made Yan regret turning into a cat.

Qi Feng gave him a sniff. “Caramel, why do you smell like Yan Jiyun’s ointment?”

He frowned and parted Yan’s fur, examining him from head to toe.

Yan couldn’t read what Qi Feng was thinking, but in his heart: That was too hasty of me.