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

Zhou Lang looked down—the staircase continued to extend.

Do you think that thing is still on the underground level?

"Not sure," the bandaged man said, "but if it's a guardian ghost, it might be fixed to a certain floor."

Zhou Lang decided to continue.

The door to the second basement level was closed. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for a while, but there was no sound from inside.

He didn't open the door and continued walking downstairs.

Upon reaching the third basement level, the stairs ended. There was only an iron door in front of me.

There was a talisman pasted on the iron gate; it was yellowed and looked like it had been put there a long time ago.

"This talisman is for sealing purposes," the bandaged man said, "but it's already ineffective."

Zhou Lang reached out and pushed the door open.

The door didn't move.

He increased his strength, but the door remained unmoved.

"Locked?"

Zhou Lang squatted down to examine the door lock—it wasn't an ordinary lock; a lump of flesh was stuffed into the keyhole.

"Disgusting," he muttered, trying to cut the lump of flesh with a chainsaw.

The moment the chainsaw made contact, the lump of flesh suddenly retracted, as if it were alive. Then the entire door clicked open by itself.

Behind the door was a corridor, with glowing lights embedded in the walls on both sides—

Zhou Lang looked closely and saw that it was a lantern.

Human skin lantern.

Each lantern was made of human skin, and something inside glowed, casting a dim yellow light on the corridor. The lanterns varied in shape, some large and some small, but traces of facial features could be seen on each one.

Zhou Lang counted them; there were twelve lamps in total on both sides.

"This isn't the style of a stitched-up corpse demon," the bandaged man said. "This is a different kind of monster."

Zhou Lang didn't move, but stood at the door and observed for a while.

The corridor was about thirty meters long, ending at another door. The door was ajar, and a faint light shone through.

"That should be the core of it," Zhou Lang said.

"Hmm. But are you sure you want to go in now?"

"What are we waiting for if we don't go in? Are we waiting for the fifth group to come down and collect my body?"

The bandaged man didn't say anything more.

Zhou Lang stepped into the corridor.

After walking about five steps, the nearest lantern made of human skin suddenly swayed. Then he heard a woman's voice—

"return……"

Zhou Lang paused.

"Come back...you promised me..."

The sound came from the lantern, faint and weak, like crying.

Zhou Lang ignored him and continued walking forward.

After walking ten steps, the third lantern began to speak: "Why doesn't he come back... He went to see that woman..."

The fifth lamp: "I don't want to die... I don't want to be made like this..."

The seventh lamp: "Save me...please save me..."

All the lanterns were talking, their voices rising and falling, like a group of souls trapped inside the lanterns wailing.

Zhou Lang quickened his pace.

But he could only walk halfway before he could go no further—not that he didn't want to walk, but his legs suddenly felt heavy, as if they were being held down by something.

He looked down.

A pair of hands reached out from the ground, gripping his ankles tightly. The hands were thin, with pale skin and red nail polish on their nails.

"Hold--"

Zhou Lang swung the chainsaw and chopped down at the hands.

The chainsaw severed the wrists of those hands.

There was no blood at the cut, only dry, white fragments, like paper.

The severed hand detached from the ankle, fell to the ground, twitched a few times, and then remained still.

Zhou Lang took a step back and looked down at the ground. The spot where he had just reached out was now smooth again, as if nothing had happened.

The lanterns on both sides of the corridor were all lit up, and the facial features on the human skin were distorted, as if they were laughing or crying.

"They're the spirits trapped inside the lanterns," the bandaged man said, "but not the main threat. The thing that makes the lanterns is."

Zhou Lang didn't stop; he used a chainsaw to clear a path and quickly crossed the remaining corridor.

Three more times, the ground reached out to grab him, but he noticed each time beforehand—the ground would bulge slightly first, and then reach out. He learned to judge his position by observing the undulations of the ground.

After walking thirty meters, he stood in front of the second door.

The door was ajar, and warm yellow light shone through the crack.

Zhou Lang listened intently for a while. There was a sound inside—it sounded like someone humming a song.

It's a very old folk song, with a broken melody.

He slowly pushed the door open with the teeth of a chainsaw.

Behind the door was a large space, like a basement converted into a living room. The walls were covered with patterned wallpaper—no, if you looked closely, the patterns on the wallpaper were human faces. Individual pieces of human face skin pieced together.

A round table was placed in the center of the space, with a teapot and cups on it.

A woman was sitting at the table.

She looked to be in her forties, wearing a floral apron, her hair neatly tied back. She was doing needlework with her head down—holding a piece of human skin in her hand, sewing something onto it with needle and thread.

She was humming a song.

Zhou Lang did not move.

The woman looked up at him.

Her face was normal, with regular features, even beautiful. But her eyes were wrong—her pupils were vertical, like a snake's.

"We have a guest." She smiled, put down her needlework, and said, "Sit down."

Zhou Lang gripped the chainsaw tightly, but did not sit down.

"Not going to sit?" The woman tilted her head. "Standing is fine too. You're here to find the core members, right?"

Zhou Lang didn't expect her to ask this directly.

"The core isn't with me." The woman pointed to a small door on the other side of the room. "It's inside. But you'll have to get past me first."

"Are you the Ghost King?" Zhou Lang asked.

The woman laughed: "Ghost King? That good-for-nothing? He's down there. I'm just a gatekeeper."

Zhou Lang's heart sank.

A gatekeeper? What star rating is this thing?

"Three and a half stars, I guess," the bandaged man whispered in his ear. "Something between three and four stars. A very rare grade."

"If you want to go there," the woman picked up her needlework again, "just chat with me."

"chat?"

"Hmm." She threaded the needle with practiced ease. "I've been here too long, and no one's talking to me. Talk to me for a bit, and I'll let you over."

Zhou Lang didn't believe there was such a cheap deal.

"What are you going to talk about?" he asked.

"Whatever," the woman said, stitching up her needle. "For example, why did you come here?"

"Clear the core of the instance."

"I'm not asking about the mission," the woman shook her head. "I'm asking why you came here. Were you forced to come, or did you want to?"

Zhou Lang thought for a moment: "Both."

"Interesting." The woman looked up at him. "Those people up there were all forced into it. They're all terrified, like quails. Aren't you afraid?"

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

The woman laughed again, this time a more genuine laugh: "I like what you said. I thought the same thing when I was alive."

"When you were alive?"

"That was twenty years ago." She lowered her head and continued sewing. "Back then, I was a housewife. I cooked, washed clothes, and took care of the children every day. Life was pretty good, except my husband was a beast."

Zhou Lang noticed that she was pricking the needle with even more force.