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

It was a perfectly normal face. Young, in his early twenties, a little pale but nothing unusual.

A line of text appeared at the bottom of the screen:

"I died on the third floor. Do you want to know how I died?"

Han Yingying hesitated for a moment, then picked up her pen and wrote below—

"think."

The writing was absorbed into the paper and disappeared. Then a new line of text appeared:

"Go to room 302 on the third floor. There's something in the closet behind the door. But you have to go before dark, because after dark—no, he'll be here."

The writing stopped there. The expression of the former resident in the picture changed; her mouth opened as if she were screaming silently, and then the entire picture began to blacken from the edges, curling and charring as if burned. A few seconds later, only ashes remained on that page.

Han Yingying stared at the scorch marks on her sketchbook.

It works. But you can only ask one question at a time. And you'll be interrupted halfway through—interrupted by "him".

"who is he?

She closed her sketchbook and left the room. She bumped into Little Fatty in the hallway; he was carrying a bag and acting suspiciously as he walked upstairs. Little Fatty was startled when he saw Han Yingying.

"What are you doing?" Han Yingying asked.

"I'm scouting ahead. What about you?"

"Too."

The two exchanged a glance.

"Together?" Little Fatty asked.

"No, thank you," Han Yingying refused. It wasn't that she didn't trust her, but rather that her skills were not something she could easily reveal.

She went up to the third floor.

The third-floor corridor was much darker than the first and second floors. Two of the wall lamps were broken, and the rest were flickering. At the end of the corridor was room 302, the door ajar.

Han Yingying pushed open the door and went in.

The room layout was the same as hers, but older. The sheets were yellowed, and a layer of dust covered the table. The wardrobe was in the corner; she walked over and opened the door.

Several moldy clothes were hanging in the closet. She pushed the clothes aside and found an iron box at the bottom of the closet.

The box was locked. Not an ordinary lock, but a combination lock that required a four-digit numeric password.

Han Yingying took the box out and examined it from all angles. A line of small characters was engraved on the bottom of the box—

"2-4-3"

The password is a three-digit number, but it's four digits. One digit is missing.

As she was pondering the fourth digit, she heard footsteps at the door.

Han Yingying turned around.

There was a person standing in the corridor.

Zhou Lang.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking at the metal box in her hand. "You're pretty quick."

"You're following me?"

"No, I was looking for this too." He walked in, glanced at the cabinet, then at the numbers on the metal box. "One digit is missing."

How did you know there was something here?

Zhou Lang didn't answer the question. He looked around, walked to the window, and wiped the dust off the windowsill with his finger. Underneath the dust was a number—

7

"2-4-3-7," Zhou Lang said.

Han Yingying turned the combination lock. The four numbers aligned, and with a click, the lock opened.

Inside the box was a photograph and a key.

The photo shows this guesthouse, but it looks brand new. Several people are standing at the entrance, dressed like they're from the 70s or 80s. There's a line of text written on the back of the photo—

Group photo at the opening ceremony. Guesthouse owner: Chen Shouwang.

The key was an old-fashioned brass key with a label attached that read "B1".

B1. Basement level.

This guesthouse has a basement.

Han Yingying and Zhou Lang exchanged a glance.

"Cooperation?" Han Yingying asked proactively.

Zhou Lang thought for a moment. "Okay. But there's a condition."

"explain."

"You didn't pay when you got on the bus."

Han Yingying was stunned for a moment.

"It's quite interesting that your skill fooled that driver." Zhou Lang's tone was indifferent. "I won't ask you what the specific skill is, but if you need to use it later, don't hold back."

He saw it.

Han Yingying's heart skipped a beat. But the other party's attitude didn't seem like a threat; it was more like stating a condition for cooperation.

"Okay," she agreed.

The two decided to go to the basement before dark. But when they came down from the third floor, Han Yingying almost bumped into another "former resident".

This time it was a man. He was wearing a suit and tie, and his face was as pale as the woman's in the restaurant. He stood motionless at the corner of the stairs between the second and third floors, facing the wall.

"Do not respond to their questions"—Rule No. 3.

Han Yingying and Zhou Lang walked past him silently.

The man in the suit didn't turn around, but he spoke the instant they walked past.

Are you new guests?

The voice was perfectly normal. So normal it sounded like a greeting in an office building elevator.

Han Yingying kept her mouth shut. Zhou Lang also remained silent. The two quickened their pace and went downstairs.

In the lobby on the first floor, Zhang Chuang and Lin Ke were rummaging through things at the front desk. When they saw Han Yingying and Zhou Lang appear together, Zhang Chuang raised an eyebrow.

"You two know each other?"

"We just met," Han Yingying said.

Zhou Lang walked directly to a small door in the corner of the lobby. The door was locked with a simple padlock. He took a pair of scissors from his pocket—

Wait, where did he get the scissors?

*Snap.* The lock broke.

"Do you carry scissors with you?" Han Yingying asked.

"Habit."

Behind the door was a narrow flight of stairs leading underground. Zhou Lang took out an oil lamp—yes, an oil lamp—lit it, and walked ahead.

As Han Yingying followed behind, a thought popped into her mind: This person's equipment and attire were completely unlike those of someone who had come for the first time.

The basement wasn't large, about thirty square meters. The four walls were covered with photos, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes, densely packed together.

Zhou Lang held up the oil lamp and examined the photos one by one. Han Yingying, on the other hand, went to look through the notes on the table.

The notebook cover reads: "Chen Shouwang's Diary".

She turned to the last few pages.

The handwriting in the diary became increasingly illegible, and the last few entries were almost unrecognizable:

"March 12th. Another guest has gone missing. It was that painter from the north. He said he saw something he shouldn't have seen on the third floor. I told him not to make a fuss, but he wouldn't listen. He disappeared that night."

March 14th. I went to the third floor to check. I heard a sound coming from the closet in room 302. I didn't open it.

March 17th. The guesthouse can no longer operate. It's no longer mine. It belongs to him.

March 19th. "

The last entry only has the date, followed by a blank space.

Just as Han Yingying was about to turn to the previous pages, the basement light went out. Not the oil lamp—the oil lamp was still on—but the already half-dead incandescent bulb above her head went completely dark.

In the darkness, Zhou Lang raised the oil lamp and shone it towards the stairwell.

A person was standing at the top of the stairs.

Not a player.

He was a man wearing an old-fashioned cotton-padded jacket, with no facial features—not just covered, but truly none. Smooth skin stretched from his forehead to his chin, without eyes, nose, or mouth, like an uncarved, blank mask.

Han Yingying took a step back.

The cotton-padded jacket slowly opened—without a mouth, the voice seeped out from the very center of the face.

"What are you looking for?"

Rule number three: Do not respond.