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

Ahead was a long corridor.

Rows of framed photos hung on the wall, the pictures inside already yellowed. Zhou Lang held up the oil lamp and peered closer; the photos all showed servants in black uniforms, each with a blank expression.

"These people..." Han Yingying stared at the photo.

"They're all dead," Zhou Lang said.

He noticed that each photograph was labeled with a date and a name. The earliest was from 1923, and the latest was yesterday.

Zhou Lang recognized the person in yesterday's photo.

It's the maid who hanged herself last night.

"Damn it," Zhao Qiang swallowed hard. "Just how many people died in this manor?"

Zhou Lang didn't answer; he was counting the number of photos.

One hundred and thirty-seven images.

In other words, 137 servants have died in the manor over the years.

He suddenly remembered what the butler had said—every servant will have their own ending.

In retrospect, all of these people ended up the same way.

They're all going to die.

"Keep moving forward," Zhou Lang said.

At the end of the corridor was a wooden door, unlocked. Zhou Lang pushed the door open, revealing a room inside.

The room was small, furnished with a few tables and chairs. The tables were piled high with account books.

Zhou Lang opened an account book, which recorded the manor's expenses.

"Rice, flour, oil, salt, firewood, candles, clothes, fabrics..." He looked through the list line by line, "They are all accounts for daily necessities."

"Why are you looking for this?" Zhao Qiang asked.

"Find the pattern," Zhou Lang said.

He flipped through several more account books and discovered the problem.

The purchase volumes recorded in these ledgers far exceeded normal demand.

I need to buy 30 bags of rice, 50 jin of meat, and 100 candles every month.

"How many people live in this manor?" Han Yingying also noticed something unusual.

Zhou Lang put down the account book and walked around the room.

There was a cabinet in the corner. He opened the cabinet and found a stack of documents inside.

He pulled out the top document, which was a contract.

"An employment contract?" He glanced at the contents.

The contract was very simple; it was just the terms and conditions for hiring servants for the manor. The salary, job duties, and precautions were all clearly stated.

But the last one made Zhou Lang stop.

Article 10: Upon the death of a servant, all personal belongings shall belong to the manor, and the family members shall not pursue them.

"What the hell is this?" Zhao Qiang leaned closer to look. "Isn't this a contract of servitude?"

Zhou Lang didn't say anything; he flipped through a few more contracts.

Every contract is the same; the last clause always contains the same sentence.

He put the contract back, and a clue began to form in his mind.

The manor never intended for its servants to leave alive.

That's why the contract stipulated that the belongings would belong to the manor after his death.

"Keep going," he said.

There is another door at the back of the room, with a second lock on it.

Zhou Lang took out a pair of scissors and cut the lock.

Pushing open the door, you'll find yourself in an even narrower corridor.

The corridor was lined with boxes. Opening one box revealed clothes, jewelry, a wallet, and some photos.

These are all personal belongings.

"These are..." Han Yingying picked up a photo.

The photo shows a young girl smiling happily.

"The dead man's belongings," Zhou Lang said. "The manor took all the servants' things according to the contract."

He continued walking, and more and more boxes appeared.

One hundred and thirty-seven servants, one hundred and thirty-seven boxes.

Each box had a label with the name and date written on it.

Zhou Lang walked to the end of the corridor and saw the newest box.

The label reads: Wang Xiufang, June 13, 1956.

That's the maid who hanged herself last night.

He opened the box; there wasn't much inside: a few clothes, a comb, and an empty wallet.

"They're pitifully poor," Zhao Qiang said.

Zhou Lang didn't reply; he stared at the bottom of the box.

There was a piece of paper pressed down there.

He picked up a piece of paper with a few lines written on it.

"I don't want to die."

"They lied to me."

"There's something wrong with this estate."

"Please don't come."

The handwriting was very messy, and the last few words were crooked and twisted, as if the writer had broken down emotionally.

Zhou Lang folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"Let's go," he said.

At the end of the corridor was another door, with a third lock on it.

This lock is larger than the previous two, and the lock head is engraved with intricate patterns.

Zhou Lang took out a pair of scissors and cut into the lock.

Click.

The scissors are stuck.

He put more effort into cutting it again.

Click.

The lock was broken in half, but not completely disconnected.

"This lock is really good quality," Zhao Qiang complained.

Zhou Lang put away the scissors and took out a chainsaw from his backpack.

"Get out of the way," he said.

Zhao Qiang and Han Yingying took a few steps back.

Zhou Lang started the chainsaw and sawed at the lock head.

A screeching sound rang out, and sparks flew everywhere.

A few seconds later, the lock fell to the ground.

Zhou Lang turned off the chainsaw and pushed open the door.

Behind the door was a large room.

In the center of the room stood a long table, covered with candlesticks. The candles on the candlesticks had burned out, leaving only pools of wax.

A huge oil painting hangs on the wall.

The oil painting depicts a man in a black tuxedo sitting in a chair, holding a book in his hand.

The man's face was blurry, and his features were indistinct.

But Zhou Lang felt that the face looked familiar.

He walked up to the oil painting and looked at it carefully.

Suddenly, the people in the painting moved.

The man raised his head, his empty eye sockets staring straight at Zhou Lang.

"You've come," the man said.

His mouth didn't move, but his voice rang directly in Zhou Lang's mind.

Zhou Lang, expressionless, raised the chainsaw.

"Don't move," he said, "or I'll saw you off."

The man in the oil painting paused for a moment.

Clearly, they hadn't expected Zhou Lang to react this way.

"Aren't you afraid of me?" the man asked.

"I'm afraid," Zhou Lang said, "but even if I'm afraid, I still have to saw it off."

As he spoke, he started the chainsaw.

The roar of the chainsaw echoed through the room.

The man was silent for a few seconds, then finally sighed.

"That's enough," he said. "You've passed the test."

Zhou Lang turned off the chainsaw.

"What kind of test?"

"A test of courage," the man said. "The servants who make it this far are all brave. But most people would be scared away if they saw me."

"So?" Zhou Lang asked.

"So you have the right to know the truth," the man said.

He paused, then continued, "This manor is not a place for humans to live."

"I know," Zhou Lang said. "It's where ghosts live."

The man paused for a moment.

"You already knew?"

"I could tell on the first day," Zhou Lang said. "The manor is full of ghosts; only a fool wouldn't notice."

The man remained silent for a longer period.

"Then why did you stay?" he asked.

"Making money," Zhou Lang said. "High salary."

The man fell completely silent.

The room was quiet for a while before Zhao Qiang asked in a low voice, "Brother, is this really okay?"

"That's good," Zhou Lang said.

He looked at the man in the oil painting and asked, "What is the truth?"

The man composed himself and said, "The owner of this manor is not human."

"It's a ghost," Zhou Lang replied.

"...Yes," the man said, "My master is a demon. And a very powerful demon at that."

"How strong?" Zhou Lang asked.

"Powerful enough to create a world of ghosts," the man said. "This manor is the world he created. Here, he is a god."