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

"Who is Old Chen? Who is Liu Mingyuan? And who is the one surnamed Zhao?" Lin Chuan asked.

Zhou Lang put the letter in his pocket: "Investigate slowly."

I can't get to the sixth floor. The stairs are blocked off at the fifth floor; they've been welded shut with iron plates.

Basement level—a restricted area. The staircase entrance is located in a corner of the first-floor lobby, with a tightly closed iron door secured by an electronic lock. A pungent smell of medicine mixed with decay wafts from under the door.

"Rule number five: No going down," Han Yingying said.

"The places where you can't go down are often the most crucial." Zhou Lang squatted down and looked at the electronic lock. "But there's no rush now."

When they returned to the third floor, Wang Defa was gathering everyone in the corridor.

"Come here, everyone, I have something to say."

Eight people gathered in the middle of the corridor.

Wang Defa recounted the information he had gathered—it was roughly the same as what Zhou Lang had, but he had visited one more place: the pharmacy on the first floor.

"There was only one kind of medicine in the pharmacy." He held up a small bottle of pills. "White pills, no label, no instructions. I asked the pharmacist what it was, and he said, 'A miracle drug.'"

"You're going to treat all these illnesses with this one medicine?" Li Yuanzhi frowned. "There's no such thing in reality."

"This isn't realistic," Wang Defa said. "Moreover, Rule Four requires us to take the medication in person. I suspect there's something wrong with this medication."

"Then don't eat it," Iron Fist Chen said.

"The rule is that you must take it in person; not taking it is a violation of the rule," Han Yingying said.

"So what if I broke the rules?"

Zhou Lang glanced at Iron Fist Chen: "Die."

One word, and the corridor fell silent for a few seconds.

An'an shrank back, and Song Wan pulled her into her arms.

"What if you eat it in front of them and then try to vomit it out?" Lin Chuan said.

"We can give it a try," Zhou Lang said, "but we have to be prepared for the possibility that it might not work."

The discussion wasn't over when footsteps came from the end of the corridor.

A middle-aged man in a white coat walked over. He had a square face, short hair, and a scar on his chin. His name tag read: Liu Mingyuan, Vice President.

Liu Mingyuan.

Zhou Lang immediately thought of the names that appeared repeatedly in those medical records.

"A new patient?" Liu Mingyuan walked over with a smile. "Welcome. I'm the vice president here, and also your attending physician. If you feel unwell, please come to me anytime."

His smile was kind, his voice gentle, and his eyes soft.

—But Zhou Lang noticed that there was a fountain pen clipped to the pocket of his white coat, with dark red marks on the nib.

"Dean Liu," Li Yuanzhi stepped forward, "I'm also a doctor, and I'd like to ask about your special medicine—"

"This special medicine is the culmination of the hospital director's hard work," Liu Mingyuan interrupted him, his tone still gentle. "Please rest assured, this medicine is very effective for your symptoms. Get some rest, and treatment will begin tomorrow."

After he finished speaking, he nodded to everyone, turned around, and left.

"He said 'the dean's hard work,'" Han Yingying said in a low voice. "But the letter mentioned 'Old Chen' and 'Little Liu'—if Old Chen is the dean, then Little Liu is this Liu Mingyuan. The letter said that Little Liu was colluding with someone surnamed Zhao."

"Don't rush, focus on survival on the first day," Zhou Lang said. "We'll do room checks at 8 PM, everyone go back to your rooms, don't do anything reckless."

He glanced at Iron Fist Chen as he said this.

Iron Fist Chen scratched his bald head: "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You look most like the kind of person who would do something reckless."

Iron Fist Chen: "..."

At dinner time, the eight people went to the cafeteria on the first floor.

The canteen wasn't big, with about ten tables. Behind the food serving window stood two chubby cooks wearing white aprons. The dishes were surprisingly normal—braised pork, stir-fried vegetables, tomato and egg soup, and rice.

"It's pretty decent." Iron Fist Chen filled a plate to the brim, sat down, and started eating.

Zhou Lang ladled out a bowl of soup. He didn't drink it right away; he smelled it first—it smelled like ordinary tomato and egg soup, with no strange odor. He stirred it with his chopsticks; the bottom of the soup contained normal egg drop soup and tomato pieces.

Han Yingying sat next to him, eating rice in small bites.

"I just feel like something's not right," she said in a low voice.

"where?"

"chef."

Zhou Lang glanced up at the food serving window. Two plump cooks were tidying up the stove, their movements efficient. The one on the left was chopping vegetables—his knife skills were excellent, the chopping motions steady and rhythmic.

but.

There was nothing on the cutting board he used.

An empty cutting board, an empty knife, cutting through the air. The exact same procedure as the group of people in the operating room on the fourth floor.

Zhou Lang lowered his head and drank his soup: "I saw it. Don't keep staring at it."

"Hmm." Han Yingying looked away.

"And what about the food we're eating..." Lin Chuan chimed in.

"I don't know," Zhou Lang said. "But since the rules require eating on time, it means that the food is safe at least within the specified time. It's hard to say outside of the rules."

Wang Defa ate very little and kept observing the canteen environment. He noticed a notice board on the wall with an old photograph posted on it.

The photo has faded, but it's still recognizable—a group of people in white coats are posing for a photo in front of the hospital gate. In the middle of the front row sits an elderly man with white hair, looking remarkably spry, a medal pinned to his chest. Behind him stands a young man, none other than Liu Mingyuan—a Liu Mingyuan who looks twenty years younger, smiling with boundless confidence.

Below the photo is a caption: "In commemoration of the 10th anniversary of Renxin Hospital, President Chen Deren and all staff."

"Old Chen—Chen Deren." Zhou Lang noted down the name.

When I returned to the third floor after dinner, it was 7:15 PM. There were still 45 minutes until rounds.

Zhou Lang called Han Yingying and Lin Chuan to his room and closed the door.

"Tell me the information we have so far."

Han Yingying spoke first: "The dean's name is Chen Deren, and he's dedicated to researching effective drugs. The vice dean, Liu Mingyuan, is his apprentice. There's also a man surnamed Zhao, who's an investor—the wealthy businessman in the background of this story. Liu Mingyuan and Zhao colluded to conduct human experiments behind the dean's back. That letter was probably written by the dean to a friend, but he didn't finish it before...something happened."

"The treatment results in the medical records were all crossed out," Lin Chuan added, "which means that the fate of all patients cannot be made public. The miracle drug is a smokescreen; the real purpose is to use patients as guinea pigs."

Zhou Lang asked a question: "What about the dean? Is he dead or has he become a monster?"

"The hidden clue says 'Renxin Hospital has indeed cured many people,' which means that the director's initial research direction was not problematic," Han Yingying said. "If he turned into a monster, it must have happened after the murder."

"Then there's one possibility," Zhou Lang said. "There's more than one strange force in this instance. Liu Mingyuan and Zhao are in one group, and the Dean is in another. The Dean might occasionally regain his normal consciousness."

"How did you determine that?"

"intuition."

Han Yingying glanced at him but didn't press the matter. She was already used to it—Zhou Lang's intuition had never been wrong in previous instances.

7:55. The three of them went back to their rooms.

At exactly eight o'clock, the sound of footsteps rang out.

Thump, thump, thump. Heavy footsteps walked from one end of the corridor to the other.

Zhou Lang sat on the edge of the bed and stuffed all his belongings into his clothes. There was a knock on the door.

"301, ward rounds."

He got up and opened the door.