Cat 95: Who Are “They”?

Chapter 95: Who Are “They”?

The corridors on B3 were more intricate than Yan Jiyun had first assumed; it wasn’t just the simple cross-shaped layout he remembered.

He ran ahead, constantly searching for Room 319 just as Dr. Zhou had instructed. Yet, no matter how carefully he looked, he saw no such room at all.

Every row ran from 1 to 8—there wasn’t even a number 9. Was Dr. Zhou playing a trick on him? There was no 319 at all.

Suddenly, it dawned on Yan Jiyun: Dr. Zhou had sent him on ahead on purpose. By drawing pursuit, he was diverting attention from Zhou himself.

He was, in effect, acting as Zhou’s decoy. That crafty NPC!

Had they fled together, Peng’s men would have targeted Zhou directly; Yan Jiyun, now just a suspended junior supervisor, would be an expendable casualty and might be ejected from the zoo—a death in scenario terms.

This scenario had consumed both his brainpower and stamina; he could swear he’d lost a full kilo.

The intern chasing him behind gasped between curses: “Damn it, Jiang You, how can you run so fast!”

What could you expect, Yan Jiyun thought, after so much practice running for his life?

But he couldn’t keep running blindly; Room 319 must have a trick to it.

Accelerating, he used a sharp corner to lose his pursuers, slipping quickly out of sight and activating his invisibility cloak—if he didn’t use it now, there might never be another chance.

The cloak worked wonders—once activated, the NPCs lost him completely.

“Where did he go? He just vanished.”

“Maybe he ducked into one of these rooms.”

“That’s possible. Peng said he was a high-priority target. Keep searching.”

The two shook every door handle along the corridor, but all were locked. Undeterred, they pressed on with their search.

Yan Jiyun, far ahead by now, felt the joy of the high-grade cloak—fifteen minutes of freedom before a half-hour cooldown.

More than enough for a lot to happen.

The B3 floor had a confusing but regular layout: both horizontal and vertical rows were numbered 1 to 8—still no sign of a 319. If rows had only eight rooms each, where could “9” be?

Perhaps “319” referred to the second row, ninth door? But no such door existed.

Maybe Zhou had already found the secret entrance while Yan was still wandering below. That would be embarrassing.

Undeterred, Yan kept searching. Five minutes passed with no sign of 319.

Stopping at 316, he stared at the number. No “9”—but maybe if he flipped the “6″?

Instead of just yanking the handle, he tried rotating the number on the plaque. Sure enough, the 6 turned upside-down to become a 9, and with a click, the door unlocked on its own.

Glancing about to ensure no pursuers, he ducked inside.

Inside was a stairway leading down to B2.

As an underground facility, the room was always in shadow, not ventilated, with a chill in the air.

Yan Jiyun hurried up—down?—to B2.

Coming from above, there had been a staircase, but thinking back, he didn’t recall any portal from B3 to B2.

Peng might also be searching for the B2 entrance.

Yan Jiyun arrived at B2 with a few quick steps.

This level was totally different from the one before.

Here, the layout resembled a hospital more than anything—none of B3’s confusion. Everything was laid out clearly and efficiently.

Who had Dr. Zhou asked him to rescue here?

Who were “they”?

Humans or animals?

Were “they” human or animal?

There were still NPCs here—Yan Jiyun saw several white-coated researchers bustling about, likely all Zhou’s research collaborators.

He guessed these were the very people Peng was so desperate to uncover.

How did these people usually enter? Was there a secret passage somewhere?

What exactly was this “special” research they were conducting?

If Deputy Director He was in the dark about all this, the director—hospitalized after a stroke—must have originally overseen the project at the very top.

In reality, Zhou had given him precious little important information; the system’s quest was equally vague, with five-star difficulty.

Who would have imagined the scenario’s true main quest was here? Now, the zoo’s crisis and this true quest overlapped.

The true issue was now to resolve the zoo’s greatest crisis.

If trouble befell the animals, the zoo itself would be forced to shut.

If the experiment was exposed, the zoo would be closed or reorganized, maybe even sold or handed to new management if the consequences were severe.

“Different animals”—could this mean the unusually intelligent panther, tiger, lion, wolf king, parrot, and others he’d met?

Main Quest 1, “Find the different animals,” already showed as complete.

Main Quest 2: “Find their true identities.” That was clearly experiment-related—so just who were “they”?

Main Quest 3: “Rescue the different animals.” Did that mean evacuating the panther, tiger, lion, and so on? What was the connection between “they” and these animals?

Yan Jiyun decided to think radically. Could “they” correspond one-to-one with certain animals? The idea gave him a strange thrill.

He wasn’t surprised players could become animals; after all, they were just playing roles in a scenario. But what if the scenario’s plot reflected a real method for swapping human and animal consciousness? Such a scientific breakthrough, if it existed, would shake the world in real life. He suddenly understood Peng’s obsession—if a paper came out, he’d be global news.

[Cloak countdown: 3:09]

Time was running out; Yan Jiyun needed to find out what this lab was doing, and fast.

He quickly fell in behind an elderly professor trailed by several young doctors. The professor’s eyes, alight with a mad scientist’s zeal, quickly dimmed as someone rushed over with bad news.

“Professor, Tata was killed by outsiders,” an assistant reported.

The professor gasped, stunned. “Tata was killed? Is he still breathing? What happened?”

The young researcher’s face tightened with anguish. “Not only Tata—they’ve locked up Chengzi and the others too. Only the panther hasn’t been caught.”

The professor’s frame trembled. “Good heavens—how could this happen? They’ve uncovered our secret. Quickly, gather the others and get them out of the zoo!”

The researcher piled on more: “Professor, our exit route is blocked. The others outside are waiting to nab anyone who sticks their head out. Zhou’s been imprisoned, and our supplies are only good for another day.”

The professor was overwhelmed by the blow and fainted on the spot.

Yan Jiyun: …

That young researcher really had zero emotional intelligence, giving the old man so many shocks at once.

The professor’s collapse threw the scene into chaos—Yan Jiyun’s perfect cover. He’d learned that everyone here was now trapped, none of them officially listed, just as Peng had said at first: illegal experiments were underway.

But then, why hadn’t they tried to spirit “them” away sooner?

Zhou didn’t seem like a madman. There was no mania or thrill in his eyes. What did the illegal experiments matter to him? What was at stake?

Yan Jiyun slipped through the crowd, aiming to scan the rooms as quickly as possible.

Two people in blue scrubs wheeled a gurney with something humanoid past him.

The young researcher handed instructions: “We can’t move 06 for now—put them in the cold storage.”

The two blue-gowned NPCs pushed the gurney away.

Wasn’t Tata a gorilla? But this was a human corpse.

Tata = human?

Were these people the “they”?

If so, did every other animal correspond to a specific person here?

[Cloak countdown: 2:39]

Yan Jiyun picked up speed, searching for other “humans” like Tata. Having gotten to know the panther and the others, he no longer liked thinking of them as test subjects.

The first few rooms were all offices. Advancing further, he began to see those “humans”—each room occupied by a patient on a ventilator.

And there were at least five or six such rooms; more, in fact, as he moved on. Altogether, he counted twenty.

Finding “them” among twenty patients—wasn’t that too much?

His cloak was running out—he’d have to hide soon; discovery was too great a risk.

Each door labeled only sex and age, not names. Which was Tata?

He’d have to cross-reference the patients’ information—patients, for now, better than “test subjects”.

[Cloak countdown: 19s]

There were many more staff here than downstairs on B3.

If he materialized here, he’d be caught for sure—maybe for experiments, maybe just locked up, but neither fate appealed.

As long as no one was looking, he slipped into the nearest available patient room.

Suddenly, the young researcher from earlier turned down the corridor, asking, “How’s 05?”

“No change—vitals stable.”

“What about 03, 09, 12?”

“All stable, nothing unusual. Dr. Fang, should we…?”

“Let’s wait and see. We’ll talk when Dr. Zhou returns.”

“But didn’t you just say Dr. Zhou was detained?”

“I trust he’ll find a way out.”

Yan Jiyun thought: If you trust him so much, why scare the professor? Was there something more at play here?

With only seconds left, he quickly scanned the information at the head of the bed.

The patient was a handsome young man in an oxygen mask.

[05]
[Name: Cheng Yun]
[Sex: Male]
[Age: 30]
[Admittance date: May 1, 20X3]
[Coma cause: traffic accident, brain injury]
[Primary doctor: Zhou Yiqun]
[Status: stable]

No sooner did Yan Jiyun touch the chart than a system prompt flashed:

[Confirm this patient as special identity?]
[Yes] [No] [Undecided]

He couldn’t be sure if this was the one. If this was human-animal consciousness projection, to which animal had he been transferred?

He still needed documentation cross-referencing patients and their experiment logs—only by confirming those could he rescue “them”.

These tasks just kept getting harder.

With so many staff in the experimentation zone, and nothing matching animals with patients at the bedside, it was hard to imagine succeeding.

A brief internal grumble, and his cloak ran out.

Footsteps approached—the researchers coming into the very room he’d chosen.

Could his luck get any worse? Of all the empty rooms…

And there was no place to hide in here.

Thinking fast, he used the experience card to slip under the bed in cat form, muttering that another use or two might drive his popularity points negative.

An hour until 5:00—the end of the game-day—and who knew how many points he’d lose before then.

The researchers only checked the patient, leaving the door ajar; Yan Jiyun escaped from under the bed unnoticed.

The hallway stood empty; time to move on from Room 05.

The rooms were all painted in pale colors—Yan Jiyun’s own black fur or clothes would stand out starkly; he needed a different approach, and fast.

Was there a patient records room? This didn’t seem a normal hospital—was there such a room?

He remembered 05’s admission date, and that he’d seen the current date at the zoo entrance. That was two years ago—every patient here must have a similarly lengthy chart. If there were twenty patients, there was probably a medical records room.

While the staff were still occupied, he ran toward what should be the office and patient area, then labs, then records storage.

From the NPCs’ conversations, it was clear that, aside from the now-dead Tata, none had spoken of the other patients—likely meaning that the player would have to dig out their secrets alone.

It was only one floor—easy enough to search, and clearly labeled.

Yan Jiyun quickly found the records room—no computer required.

According to what he’d just seen, all these patients were comatose from various injuries, then quietly transferred here for experimentation. Perhaps their families had agreed in hopes they’d live again, in some form.

If their consciousnesses had been projected into animals, how much did they retain—full memories, or just glimmers?

Not all twenty humans would have successfully become “animal” hosts. “They” must mean the successes.

Chengzi and the others always seemed especially clever—more than animals, less than humans.

He himself was a true “soul in another body”—a person’s mind in a cat’s frame.

His own accident had led him, after waking, to be a kitten. Had he too been “experimented” on? Surely not.

Standing by the records room door, he heard another system deduction—

[[Global] Player Yan Jiyun has violated post rules; 200 popularity points deducted.]

Why were the deductions getting bigger?

In his irritation, he slapped the door handle—unlocked.

Was the system actually being nice? He had his doubts.

Inside, he snapped on the light. A wall of files—proof the system was as “friendly” as always. Getting in was easy; finding the info, not so much.

With his earlier experiences, Yan Jiyun guessed: could these files be just another red herring?

He rifled through the last compartment. The file read “202,” which probably meant Test Subject 202.

Still cat-shaped for now, he used his paws to slide the folder open. The first page was a high-res photo—a bright-eyed, smiling boy. He might have arrived here full of hope that something new could let him live again, but at the bottom of the photo was a big blue stamp: “Failed.”

The report showed the boy had died at 18, brain-dead after trying to save a girl from a fall. The family couldn’t afford care and sent him here.

Every entry thereafter was an experiment and its result—unsuccessful, and finally, brain death.

Such a waste.

Yan Jiyun checked three files in a row—each a failed case. Looking deeper, every folder was the same: “failure,” or transferred, or dead.

No wonder the records room door was left unlocked—failure all around.

Where were the successful cases?

Could the twenty patients in the rooms outside be the successes? With Tata gone, that left nineteen.

Not necessarily; some rooms could still be experiments in progress.

Yan Jiyun didn’t rush off. He counted, and saw that though there were many files, they were numbered 01 to 202; the very last was 02, not 01.

He counted carefully—missing were 01, 05, 09, and so on—a total of twenty numbers.

So by cross-referencing patients’ numbers and their corresponding animal “species,” he could determine who “they” were.

He was now sure: “different animals” meant animals with human minds.

The black panther, Chengzi, Caesar, the wolf king, the brown bear, and Xixi were all such cases.

But that was from the Peng perspective. And Peng’s quests might be misleading—the game never handed you answers, and obvious solutions were often traps.

So perhaps there were even smaller animals, like Xixi, whose language ability far surpassed other mimicry-capable creatures.

To be sure, he needed to find the earliest-case patients and their corresponding animals, and he’d have his answer.

Of course, guessing was easy. Many animals were already locked up; freeing them would be the challenge. And where exactly were they being held?

Yan Jiyun was finally back in human form.

The cloak still cooling down, sneaking out wasn’t possible, so he decided to wait. As the researcher said earlier, everyone might be stuck here for three days, so no harm in pausing to gather his thoughts and plan a move.

He stuffed a few files under himself, shut off the lights, and sat on the floor, chin in hand, reviewing events from the very start of the scenario, ensuring nothing had been missed before letting his mind rest a moment.

It was much easier being a cat. Being human was hard indeed—you’re pushed to compete from birth for looks and talent, then for pensions and progeny, then even after death for the right burial plot.

Did his “shovel-bearer” grow up this way? Maybe. After all, didn’t she end up leaving her guild to strike out on her own?

Lost in these random thoughts, someone came in carrying a box.

They grumbled, “Every time there’s paperwork, they call me—just because I never say no! Who’d work in a basement with no sun, if not for the pay? Honestly.”

The man had framed glasses and a mask. Swiftly, Yan Jiyun circled behind, shut the door, and knocked him out with a nearby fire extinguisher.

Rifling through the records the man brought: 06.

A man in his thirties, fitness coach, paralyzed in an accident, chosen as a subject.

Cause of death: consciousness hybrid terminated.

Patient 06’s mind had been projected into Tata. Now Tata was dead.

Yan Jiyun shuddered, goosebumps covering his arms. This experimentation was more horrifying than his own “rebirth.” Who would willingly swap minds with animals—people desperate to escape reality?

Strangely, after reviewing this file, the system didn’t prompt for confirmation—perhaps because dead hybrids weren’t part of the mission.

Thus, if a hybrid died, the original would too. But if the original died, would the hybrid also perish?

He needed to match every “patient” to an animal.

Donning the researcher’s lab coat and glasses, and pulling a fresh mask from the man’s pocket, Yan Jiyun left the records room.