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

The accident happened in the back row of the bus not long after it left the city.

It wasn't a big commotion, just a woman starting to sob softly, intermittently, mixed with the roar of the engine, as if it came from a very far place.

Han Yingying sat by the window and glanced at it from the side.

The woman was in her early thirties, well-dressed and with exquisite makeup, but her eyes were fixed on the back of the seat in front of her. Her lips moved, and her sobs grew louder and louder, drawing the attention of the passengers around her. Han Yingying noticed her hands—the fingers were not bent, flat on her thighs, palms facing up, which was not a posture a person would adopt when crying.

Not right.

Han Yingying stood up and was about to walk back when her wrist was grabbed.

Zhou Lang didn't turn around; his gaze remained fixed on the view outside the window. "Sit down."

"she--"

"I saw it."

Han Yingying sat down again, taking in the situation in the back seat. The woman's crying began to change tone, from sorrowful to a repetitive, mechanical frequency. An old man next to her moved his seat and covered his ears. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror but did not stop.

Zhou Lang placed his hand on his knee and tapped his fingers lightly twice.

Han Yingying stopped moving.

She didn't quite understand his logic, but after these two runs, she learned one thing—don't interrupt Zhou Lang when he's observing something. It wasn't because he was particularly profound, but because every time she interrupted, he would prove her wrong with the results, and she had already lost twice; she didn't want to lose a third time.

The crying lasted for about ten minutes, then stopped abruptly.

The woman lowered her head, took out a pack of tissues from her bag, wiped her face, and looked out the window with a calm expression as if nothing had happened.

Han Yingying quietly let out a breath.

"The eerie thing stayed on her for a while, then left," Zhou Lang said, her voice barely audible. "It wasn't coming for her; it was just passing by."

"Just passing by?"

"Wandering type. No target, attaches randomly, stays for no more than fifteen minutes." He paused, "If you go there, it will transfer to you."

Han Yingying went over the question in her mind, and goosebumps rose on her back. "How do you know it can walk?"

"have no idea."

"...Then why did you ask me to sit down?"

"Borrowed money."

Han Yingying turned to look at him. His expression remained unchanged as he stretched his legs forward and changed his sitting posture.

"I won the bet," he said, "so it's okay."

Han Yingying was silent for three seconds. "Are you serious?"

"I'm serious every time."

There was no hint of sarcasm in those words, yet they sounded even more absurd than a joke. Han Yingying shifted her gaze back to the window; the shadows of the trees on both sides of the road rushed past, the sky had already darkened, and the direction of the guesthouse was still far away.

She wanted to say something, but in the end she said nothing.

Zhao Qiang leaned forward from the front row and whispered, "That woman just now..."

"It's alright now," Han Yingying said.

"Really? I saw her eyes were completely still just now, it scared me to death—"

"Zhao Qiang," Zhou Lang said.

"what?"

"Pull your head back in."

Zhao Qiang shrank back quickly, as if he had been pressed down.

Han Yingying held back her laughter and turned her face to the window.

The bus continued on, the road growing narrower and narrower, the shadows of the mountains looming down on either side, and there was no moon in the sky. The lights of the guesthouses flickered on the mountainside, scattered here and there, as if someone had plucked stars from the sky and hung them there.

Han Yingying stared at the light, her fingers unconsciously tightening on her knees.

The first copy is in there.

The guesthouse looked better than it appeared in the photos, but it was also more eerie.

The three-story wooden building, its exterior walls covered in vines, was bathed in warm yellow light, and several pots of wildflowers sat by the entrance. It looked harmless, even a bit artsy. But as soon as Han Yingying stepped inside, a reaction hit the back of her neck—it wasn't cold, but an inexplicable "wrongness," as if someone had subtly altered a stroke in a complete painting. At first glance, it seemed fine, but upon closer inspection, everything felt off.

The receptionist was a young woman with a standard smile. She handed over the room key and said a string of welcome words.

Zhou Lang took the room key and glanced around the lobby.

Han Yingying was also scanning. There were several unfamiliar faces sitting in twos and threes in the lobby, some looking at their phones, some chatting, all seemingly ordinary tourists. But there was one person sitting in the corner, holding a book in his hand, the pages of which were not turned, and his eyes were not on the book.

She noted this detail down.

"Third floor." Zhou Lang stuffed the room card into his pocket and headed for the stairs.

As they went upstairs, Han Yingying asked in a low voice, "Did you notice that person in the corner?"

"I've noticed."

"Also a player?"

"Not sure." He stopped in the third-floor corridor, looked up the room number, and said, "Go in first, and don't move around before the instance starts."

Han Yingying stood in the corridor, holding her room key, without leaving immediately. "When does the dungeon start?"

"While asleep."

"...So we're still in the real world?"

"right."

"Then why—" She looked around; the corridor was eerily quiet, the light casting long shadows on the wooden floor. "Why does it feel like it's already started?"

Zhou Lang pushed open the door to the room, glancing back at her before going in. "Because you're already in the instance."

The door closed.

Han Yingying stood in the corridor, repeating the sentence several times, and the more she thought about it, the more something seemed off.

She returned to her room, sat on the edge of the bed, and rummaged through her bag. There wasn't anything useful inside: her phone, wallet, and a change of clothes. She took out her phone; the signal was full, and the time showed 9:47 PM.

everything is normal.

She lay down, staring at the wood grain on the ceiling, her mind a jumble of thoughts. She thought about what Zhou Lang had said, the woman on the bus, and the person in the corner of the hall who wasn't reading.

Can't sleep.

The more she thought about it, the sleepier she became, and her eyelids began to droop. She struggled for a moment, but couldn't get out of the drowsiness.

Before her consciousness faded, she thought: He said the copy begins while she's asleep.

Now—

When Han Yingying opened her eyes, the ceiling had changed.

The wood grain was still there, but the color had darkened, as if it had been soaked in something—a thick, dark brown like oil paint, with a smell of turpentine. She sat up and looked around—the room was still the same room, but there were several paintings on the walls, the brushstrokes rough, and it was hard to tell what they depicted; the lighting was insufficient.

There were voices outside the window.

She walked to the window. Below was a courtyard where several young people sat around a stone table, sketching the withered trees. One of them turned to look upstairs and met Han Yingying's gaze, waving at her.

Han Yingying took half a step back.

She looked down at her hands; there were traces of paint on her fingers, dried, a mixture of dark red and ochre, and even some under her fingernails.

Art student.

In the game, she is an art student.