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

"Don't make a sound." Zhou Lang's voice was extremely soft.

In the darkness, rustling sounds came from all directions. Those were ghosts moving—without the protection of the oil lamp, they were approaching.

Han Yingying took out her phone and was about to turn on the flashlight when Zhou Lang stopped her.

"Don't turn on the lights. Ordinary light sources won't work on them; in fact, they'll give away your location."

"What should we do then?" Han Yingying asked in a low voice.

Zhou Lang pulled something out of his pocket—a chainsaw.

The chainsaw emitted a faint metallic gleam in the darkness. Zhou Lang pressed the switch, and the roar of the motor exploded in the empty hall, so piercing it made one's teeth ache.

Then he did something that neither Zhao Qiang nor Han Yingying expected.

He aimed the chainsaw at his left arm and made a cut on the surface.

Blood seeped out.

"What are you doing!" Zhao Qiang growled in a low voice.

Zhou Lang ignored him, and instead, clutching his bleeding arm, spoke a sentence to the horde of ghosts in the darkness:

"I am one of your kind."

Then he activated his special skill – scaring ghosts.

It's less about scaring ghosts and more about a unique form of communication. When Zhou Lang's blood is exposed to the eerie environment, the residual aura of the bandaged ghost fused within him is released. To those lower-level ghosts, Zhou Lang isn't human; he's an injured member of their kind in need of protection.

The effect is immediate.

The rustling stopped. The horde of ghosts seemed to have been paused, ceasing all movement, and some even slowly retreated.

"Let's go," Zhou Lang said.

The three of them quickly crossed the hall and went up the stairs. Only when they returned to the corridor to their respective rooms did Zhao Qiang finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"Couldn't you have told me beforehand? You scared me to death!" Zhao Qiang pointed to the wound on Zhou Lang's arm. "What if this didn't work?"

"Then let's force our way in with a chainsaw." Zhou Lang tore off a piece of cloth and wrapped it around his wound. "There's always a way."

Zhao Qiang: "...Your blindly optimistic attitude will cause trouble sooner or later."

Zhou Lang didn't reply; he was thinking about Xiong Batian.

"You all go back to your rooms first," he said. "I have something to take care of."

"What is it?"

"Let's confirm who Xiong Batian really is."

Han Yingying tugged at his sleeve: "Your arm is injured, don't push yourself."

Zhou Lang looked down at her hand, then at her face. Han Yingying realized her movements were a bit too natural, loosened her grip, and looked away.

"I'll just go take a look, I won't do anything," Zhou Lang said.

Han Yingying didn't stop him anymore.

Zhao Qiang shook his head and went back to his room, leaving with the words, "Don't die out there."

"rest assured."

Xiong Batian lived in room 305 on the third floor. When Zhou Lang reached the door, light was shining through the crack in the door.

Instead of knocking, he stood against the wall beside the door, listening intently.

There was a sound in the room. Not just one person's voice—it was two people talking.

"...Two have already been opened." This was Xiong Batian's voice.

Another voice, deep and with a metallic hum, came through, its tone unclear—it was hard to tell if it was human or ghostly: "Where's the third one?"

"He didn't open it. That guy surnamed Zhou was very cautious; he sensed the pressure inside and backed away."

"His blood is needed. Only blood that has been fused with the strange human can unlock the third lock."

"I know. But he's not easy to deal with."

"You have seven days. You must unlock the third lock before the seventh day. Otherwise—you know the consequences."

Xiong Batian was silent for a moment, then said, "I understand."

The deep voice disappeared. Silence returned to the room.

Zhou Lang silently took a few steps back and returned to his room.

He closed the door, sat on the bed, and sorted through the information from tonight.

First, Xiong Batian is the eye of the manor, responsible for monitoring their actions and reporting to the manor owner.

Secondly, the third lock requires the blood of a strange human to open, and he is the only one in the entire instance who meets this condition.

Third, the manor owner—or rather, the hidden entity—needs someone to unlock the third lock. It is sealed and needs external help to break free.

Fourth, it is still uncertain whether Lin Yuan's letter is genuine or not. The statement "either kill it or replace it" could be the truth or a misleading statement.

Zhou Lang looked at the wound on his arm. The bleeding had stopped, but the edges of the wound were faintly tinged with a pale green—that was the power of the bandage ghost automatically repairing it.

He flipped to the last few pages of the management manual and read it carefully in the dim light of the oil lamp.

On the third-to-last page, he found marks where someone had scratched with their fingernails; most of the original text had been scraped away, leaving only a few fragments:

"Zhuang...is truly...not...underground...but..."

where is it?

Zhou Lang carefully examined the scraped marks against the light, and after more than ten minutes, he managed to piece together a sentence:

"The true heart of the manor is not in the basement, but in the attic."

The next morning, Zhou Lang appeared in the lobby with dark circles under his eyes.

As usual, the butler assigned tasks. Today's task was to clean the attic.

Zhou Lang almost burst out laughing—was this script designed to work in his favor?

"Everyone, go to the attic today," Butler Killer said. "The attic hasn't been cleaned in a long time, so please be thorough. A special reminder—don't touch anything in the attic. Just see it, that's enough."

Zhao Qiang leaned closer and whispered, "What does that mean? What does 'just seeing it is good' mean?"

Zhou Lang: "The literal meaning."

Zhao Qiang: "..."

The attic was at the far end of the fourth floor, accessible only by a narrow spiral staircase that could only allow one person to pass at a time. The walls of the staircase were covered with withered vines that creaked underfoot.

Six servants arrived today—besides Zhou Lang and his two companions, and Xiong Batian, there were two other players they hadn't interacted with much before. One was named Chen Mo, a tall, thin man who spoke very little, barely uttering ten words since entering the dungeon. The other was named Liu Yun, a woman around thirty years old, whose expression always carried a cold, aloof air.

The six people filed upstairs.

The attic was tidier than Zhou Lang had imagined. Although the butler had said it hadn't been cleaned in a long time, the dust on the floor wasn't thick, and the furniture was arranged in a very orderly manner. In the center was a huge easel, covered with a white cloth. Around the easel were more than a dozen wooden boxes, all of which were locked.

There was a row of bookshelves against the wall, but instead of books, they were filled with rows of dolls.

There are about thirty of them, made of various materials—wood, ceramic, and cloth. They are about the size of a human hand, each dressed in a servant's uniform, with lifelike facial expressions.

Zhao Qiang glanced at the dolls and got goosebumps all over his body: "These...could they also be former servants?"

No one answered him.

The butler assigned tasks: Zhao Qiang and Chen Mo wiped the windows; Han Yingying and Liu Yun tidied the dolls on the bookshelf (only arrange their positions, do not move them); Xiong Batian mopped the floor; Zhou Lang—

"You're in charge of the easel. Take the white cloth down, clean the dust off the frames, and then put the cloth back on."