A bizarre and terrifying experience; I messed up the dungeon world.

The booking notification for the guesthouse popped up at 3 a.m.

Han Yingying stared at the line of text on her phone screen—"You have successfully booked the [Misty Mountain Villa] experience tour. Please go to the designated station to board the bus at 23:00 tonight"—she read it over and over three times to make sure that she had never booked any homestay.

After the phone screen was locked, the screen went black, revealing her own face.

There were faint bluish marks under her eyes, left from not sleeping well these past few days. Ever since that terrifying manor instance ended, she'd felt like something was stuck in her head, something she couldn't get out.

"Here we go again." She put her phone face down on the bedside table and turned over.

The streetlights outside shone through the gaps in the curtains, casting a thin, bright line on the ceiling. Han Yingying counted twenty-seven sheep, then gave up and sat up to read the text message again.

The address is real. She searched it on a map; it's at a remote bus stop on the outskirts of the city.

At 10:30 p.m., she stood under that bus stop sign.

The words on the bus stop sign were eroded by wind and rain, leaving only blurry outlines. The streetlights flickered on and off, and a trash can lay overturned on the ground, unattended. She was the only living thing on the entire street.

No, there's another person.

A man was leaning against the other side of the bus stop sign, his hoodie pulled up to his forehead, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground. Hearing footsteps, he looked up.

Han Yingying paused for a moment.

Zhou Lang.

No, he should be called "Lang Li Ge Lang" here. But she recognized the face. In the last instance, this person had pulled her out of a pile of ghosts.

Zhou Lang also saw her, and his eyebrows twitched slightly as a greeting.

"You received the text message too?" Han Yingying walked over.

"Um."

One word, crisp and concise, without any unnecessary syllables. Han Yingying was already used to his way of speaking—if something could be resolved with a single word, he would never waste a second.

"Do you know what kind of dungeon it is?"

"have no idea."

In short, progress.

Just as Han Yingying was about to ask something else, the sound of an engine came from afar. A minibus emerged from the night, its body dark gray, with a handwritten sign on the windshield: Misty Mountain Villa.

The car door opened, and the driver was a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap. His expression was as lifeless as the streetlights on this street.

"Get in the car," the driver said.

Several people were already seated in the car. Han Yingying glanced around: in the front row by the window, a tall, thin boy in a plaid shirt had earphones in his ears and was tapping his fingers on his knees; in the middle row, a couple sat with the girl leaning on the boy's shoulder while he scrolled through his phone; in the last row, a big guy was huddled up with his head against the window, snoring louder than the engine.

Han Yingying chose a seat towards the back of the middle, and Zhou Lang sat down next to her.

The doors closed, and the minibus swayed and drove off.

The city lights receded past the car window one by one, becoming increasingly sparse and dim. After about twenty minutes, only the dark shadows of trees remained on both sides of the road.

Han Yingying noticed something—the temperature inside the car was dropping.

It wasn't the kind of cold from air conditioning; it was a chill that seeped into your bones. She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms and caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the boy in the plaid shirt in front of her who had taken off his headphones and was looking around.

Then she saw it.

On the couple's side, the girl was still leaning on her boyfriend's shoulder, but her head was turned at an angle that shouldn't have been there—a full 180 degrees, her face facing the roof of the car, her eyes rolled back, and her mouth stretched to her ears.

Her boyfriend was completely oblivious and was still scrolling through his phone.

Han Yingying's back pressed against the back of the chair.

He saw the plaid shirt too. He opened his mouth to shout, but choked on his own saliva and let out a suppressed cough.

The girl slowly turned her head back to its normal angle. She nuzzled her boyfriend's shoulder and gave a soft, coquettish hum. Her boyfriend patted her head, his eyes still glued to his phone.

Han Yingying unconsciously gripped the armrest of the seat.

That's not a person. Or rather, that "girlfriend" is no longer the same person.

Her first instinct was to warn the boy. But before she could even open her mouth, her wrist was grabbed.

Zhou Lang placed his hand on her wrist, not with much force, but the meaning was clear—don't move.

Han Yingying looked at him.

Zhou Lang didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed on some uncertain spot in front of him, and his expression was so calm that it made people wonder if he hadn't seen what had just happened at all.

But the very act of him pressing down on her wrist showed that he had seen it.

Han Yingying shut her mouth.

This wasn't her first time partnering with Zhou Lang. She'd learned something from their time at the Horror Manor: his judgment was far superior to hers. If he said not to move, then she wouldn't move. At least so far, she hadn't suffered any losses from listening to him.

The car continued driving forward.

Han Yingying resisted looking at the couple, but her ears were constantly perked up. The girl was talking to her boyfriend in a sweet, cloying voice, chatting about trivial things like what photos to take at the guesthouse and what dishes to eat. It couldn't be more normal.

But Han Yingying remembered that 180-degree turn of her head.

About fifteen minutes later, the minibus turned onto a gravel road and began to bump along. The big guy in the back was jolted awake, swore, and went back to sleep.

The car stopped.

"We've arrived." The driver's voice, like his expression, was completely flat.

The car door opened, revealing a three-story wooden building with two red lanterns hanging at the entrance and the words "Misty Mountain Villa" written on the plaque. The mountain breeze, carrying the scent of pine resin, filled the car.

After getting off the bus, Han Yingying deliberately turned around and glanced at the couple.

The girl, arm in arm with her boyfriend, stepped out of the car with a cheerful smile, acting just like any other normal person. The boyfriend finally put his phone away, glanced at the guesthouse sign, and said, "It's alright."

Zhou Lang walked past her, his voice low: "Don't worry about what happened in the car."

Why?

"The rules haven't been released yet."

Han Yingying paused for a moment, then understood what he meant—the rules of the instance hadn't been announced yet, and acting rashly might trigger unknown penalty mechanisms. In horror games, there were far too many examples of good intentions gone wrong.

The door to the guesthouse opened, and a woman in a cheongsam stood at the entrance, her makeup exquisite and her smile appropriate.

"Welcome, distinguished guests." Her voice was beautiful, like spring water dripping on jade. "I'm the housekeeper here; just call me Ah Xiu. Please come in."

The lobby is decorated in a Chinese style, with dried flowers hanging from the wooden beams, a guqin (a traditional Chinese stringed instrument) in the corner, and a faint sandalwood scent in the air. Six keys are placed on the front desk, each with a wooden tag indicating its room number.

Ah Xiu asked them to sign the register.

Han Yingying picked up the pen, hesitated for a second, and wrote down the three characters "Han Yingying". The moment the pen tip touched the paper, a chill ran from her fingertips up her arm.

She looked down—in the register, next to her name, there was a line of small print that she hadn't written: "Identity: Art student".