This is a bizarre rule, isn't it? It's supposed to grant me many children and good fortune

Amidst the hushed whispers, Vassim turned to look at Lin Feng, who stood calmly beside him, and asked in a low voice:

"Brother Lin Feng, what do you think of these five rules?"

When Leng Meng read out the five rules, Lin Feng did not feel any intuitive discomfort, which meant that the five rules should be true.

"I don't see any problems so far; all five points should be correct. Let's go, let's go check out the west wing hall first."

The group walked through a long, narrow corridor, turned two corners, and pushed open a thick wooden door covered with sheet metal—

The west wing hall then opened up before us.

The dome here is much lower than the main hall, and the tall windows are narrow and fitted with dark purple glass. The light that shines through is like diluted ink, thinly splashed on the bluish-black stone bricks.

Seven sets of armor stood in a row on seven old pedestals against the wall.

Like seven standing corpses.

They are taller than I imagined.

Each set is over two meters long, with broad shoulder armor, thick breastplate, and layers upon layers of armor plates.

The faceplates were all lowered, and behind the cross-shaped viewing holes was complete darkness; nothing could be seen.

The armor has an indelible dark silver color, like moonlight that has been saturated for hundreds of years.

Seven new pedestals have been placed in the center of the hall, forming an irregular arc.

The pedestal was wrapped with newly made brass hoops, so shiny they were blinding, clashing horribly with the old and worn atmosphere of the hall.

It's as if someone is eager to fix something in place.

Park Tae-rang shrank back, his voice low: "Why does this place feel so creepy!"

"Don't rush to move." August raised his hand and gestured for everyone to be quiet.

The university professor from the Rhineland walked around the seven old pedestals, then adjusted his glasses:

"The armor's breastplate has seven different emblems, but they all contain the same element—an open eye surrounded by seven stars."

"What do you mean?" Mark asked.

"If I'm not mistaken, this is the emblem of a long-extinct knightly order."

"An armed group responsible for night patrols and dealing with 'unclean things' during the plague era. They have different names in different countries, but they are generally called—the Night Watchmen."

Lin Feng's gaze swept over the seven sets of armor one by one, without saying a word.

"What should we pay attention to when it comes to the rules?" Tasia asked.

August looked at Lin Feng: "Lin Feng is an expert in dismantling rules."

Lin Feng rubbed his chin, pondered for a moment, and then spoke:

"First rule: never try to lift the nail—that's the prohibition itself."

"But the key point is here: if the mask opens on its own, stand still, open your eyes wide, do not close your eyes, and do not turn around."

"In other words, the opening of the armor is not a punishment for us, but a kind of 'examination.' It is watching us, and we must let it watch us enough."

Park Tae-rang swallowed hard. "But the moment the mask opens by itself must be terrifying... What if I instinctively close my eyes?"

Lin Feng's eyes darkened, and his voice turned cold and hard: "Then you'd better equate 'closing your eyes' with 'death' in your mind."

"Since it is 'inspecting', closing your eyes is a form of resistance, and you will be judged as 'unqualified'."

"You must suppress your fear of death—even if your eyelids are trembling so badly they're cramping, you mustn't close them."

Park Tae-rang's Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. He subconsciously raised his hand and rubbed his eyelids hard with his fingertips, as if giving his muscles instructions in advance.

Then, he forced a dry laugh that looked more like a grimace: "I understand... I understand. It's better to risk my life than to actually die."

"Secondly, when you hear your name called, look down to check your feet," Lin Feng continued.

"My understanding is that if the armor that calls to you casts a shadow on the ground, it means that it is 'real' and can respond."

"If there is nothing beneath its feet, then what is calling you is not in the armor, but elsewhere."

"To respond is to hand yourself over!"

Mark shrugged. "Isn't this one simple? Just look down and see if there's a shadow."

Lin Feng shook his head: "You think having a shadow means you're safe?"

"If that thing is smart enough, it can easily cast a fake shadow on you."

"You look down and see a shadow at your feet, so you feel relieved and answer, only to fall right into their trap."

"Or, if it's a completely dark place, how can you tell if it has a shadow?"

Mark turned pale, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and realized he had oversimplified the situation.

"The third rule is to pronounce the name. The armor has a name; the name is both a key and a matter of etiquette."

"After the name is called, there is a metallic vibration in response. You must bow and say 'I have bothered you today' - this is to inform it, to apologize, and to ask it to bear with you for the time being."

"Without this step, you're moving a reluctant 'resident'."

Park Tae-rang pursed his lips and tentatively asked, "...This one won't have any problems too, will it?"

Lin Feng did not answer.

He walked straight to the nearest suit of armor, bent down, and approached the etched inscription on the breastplate, his gaze slowly moving along the lines.

A few seconds later, he straightened up, his face looking rather pale.

"Looks like—this is the trap."

The crowd gathered around.

The inscription is engraved in the center of the breastplate, with strokes extending deep into the surface of the armor.

However, the writing was severely worn, and the edges had merged with the rust on the nail surface. Only a few zigzag symbols could be barely discerned.

It wasn't Chinese, it wasn't English, and it wasn't any common script they had ever seen.

Park Tae-rang leaned closer and stared at it for a long time, his brows furrowing more and more deeply: "What the hell is this writing?"

No one responded.

Just as the atmosphere was starting to sink, August, who had been silent all along, stepped out from behind the crowd.

He didn't get too close, but stood about three steps away, his gaze sweeping over the inscription—

"It's Gothic."

"The Gothic alphabet created by Bishop Urfila, dating back to the fourth century."

"I taught a seminar in Heidelberg for a semester and proofread the fragments of the Silver Manuscript word by word."

He paused for a moment and adjusted his glasses.

"It's not exactly obscure—but it's definitely quite niche for you guys."

Then, he walked to each suit of armor in turn, paused briefly in front of each breastplate, and called out the name of each one—

Wendix.

Heros.

Kyle Green.

Dolgo.

Melthorne.

Sloan.

Ovares.

Seven names, clean and concise, without a single mishap.

Park Tae-rang almost jumped up: "Thank goodness you were here! We were almost stuck here—"

August pushed up his glasses, the lenses reflecting a cold light.

"Not necessarily. A dungeon of this level wouldn't leave only one path."

"There must be a second solution—otherwise, what about other castle raid groups?"

"Not every team happens to have a professor who has studied Gothic script."

As soon as she finished speaking, Evelyn pulled a leather-bound booklet from the corner and strode over...