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

After finishing work in the afternoon, Zhou Lang went to find Han Yingying, recounted the incident with Xiong Batian, and then directly asked, "What items did you have when you entered this instance?"

Han Yingying took out a black stamp from her pocket, with incomprehensible patterns engraved on the edge: "The contract stamp of the House of the Strange, which can summon a strange creature that I have previously contracted."

"What's so strange?"

"It's relatively small," Han Yingying considered for a moment, "It can run and bark, but its attack power... is basically nonexistent."

Zhou Lang nodded, showing no disappointment, which made Han Yingying a little uneasy. She added, "Was it useful?"

"It's hard to say," he said, handing the seal back to her, "but having more options is always better than having fewer. Keep it for now; we'll need it tonight."

"Shall we go to the second basement level tonight?"

"Yes, before Xiong Batian figures out what we're going to do."

10:30 PM, in the corridor.

The three of them came out of the room and bumped into Xiong Batian at the corner.

He leaned against the corner, holding a homemade torch in his hand. The orange-yellow light was not as effective as a green oil lamp, but he stood very steadily, unlike someone who was seeing the ghosts in the corridor for the first time.

Zhou Lang glanced at him, and Xiong Batian spoke first: "Take me with you."

"No," Zhou Lang said, "I don't know them."

"I know the layout of the second basement level."

The corridor fell silent for a second. Zhao Qiang secretly tugged at Zhou Lang's sleeve from behind, the meaning clear: Take him with you.

Zhou Lang turned to look at him, and Zhao Qiang shrank back, but still whispered, "What if it's true?"

Xiong Batian raised his torch high: "On my first day in the dungeon, I went down to explore and reached the entrance to the second basement level, but I didn't go in. There were cries inside, many people were crying at the same time, and listening to it for too long would drive you crazy."

"How come you weren't killed by a ghost?" Zhou Lang asked.

"I have a way, but I can't say."

"I also have a plan, but it's not convenient for me to say," Zhou Lang said. "If you trust me and I trust you, we can each keep a backup plan, and if anything goes wrong, neither of us can blame the other. Is that okay?"

Xiong Batian was silent for a moment, then nodded.

The four of them went down the stairs and found the iron door at the end of the corridor. It was much thicker than the first lock, a mechanical lock embedded in the wall with a complex cylinder; scissors were useless against it.

Zhao Qiang leaned over to take a look, then shook his head: "Can't handle it."

Xiong Batian took out a palm-sized piece of iron from his pocket. The edges were polished very thin. He inserted it into the lock cylinder, fiddled with it a few times, and a clicking sound came from inside the lock. A crack appeared on the edge of the iron door.

All three of them were looking at him.

"You can pick locks in real life," he said calmly. "Don't look at me like that."

Zhao Qiang turned and whispered to Zhou Lang, "What kind of background do people who can pick locks in real life have?"

"That sounds much better than 'the one with the chainsaw,'" Zhou Lang said, pushing open the metal door. "Go in."

Zhao Qiang: ...

The second basement level was colder than the first basement level; you could even see white mist when you breathed out.

The green light of the oil lamp illuminated a large hall, about three stories high, with the four walls inlaid with dense wooden latticework. Each lattice contained a clay-sealed jar, stacked from the ground to the ceiling, row upon row, countless in number.

No sound.

Xiong Batian stopped at the door, a look of hesitation on his face: "There was crying here last time, why isn't it here this time?"

"Maybe they're tired of crying," Zhou Lang said, sweeping the oil lamp around the room before his gaze fell on the other side of the hall. "Or maybe they heard we were coming and are just holding it in."

At the other end of the hall, there is a narrow passageway that extends to the end, which should lead to the entrance to the third basement level.

Zhou Lang had only taken two steps into the narrow passage when Zhao Qiang grabbed him from behind—

The sound of crying came.

It didn't come from one direction; it surged out from all four sides simultaneously, flowing in along the walls. It wasn't loud, but extremely dense, like a group of people pressing their mouths to a jar and sobbing softly. The sounds overlapped, becoming a continuous buzzing.

Xiong Batian's torch went out.

In the darkness, only the green light of the oil lamp remained.

The jar began to move, not violently, but slightly and rhythmically, vibrating in sync with the frequency of the crying, as if it contained something alive.

"Run," Zhou Lang said, his tone no different from saying "Let's go eat," "Go that way, don't stop."

The four men rushed forward through the shaking pile of jars. The crying grew louder as they moved, transforming from a buzzing sound into a true cry—some high, some low, some intermittent, each sound different, piling up in the same space, until finally it felt like something was drilling into their brains.

Zhao Qiang covered his ears, and his speed immediately slowed down.

"Don't cover it," Zhou Lang pulled him back. "If you cover it, you won't be able to see clearly, and you'll trip and cause more trouble."

"but--"

"It's all just arguing, it hasn't gotten to the point of killing anyone. Focus your attention on your feet."

Zhao Qiang lowered his hand and focused on running away, which actually made him faster.

The narrow passage was about thirty meters long, with jar racks on both sides, so we dared not deviate. When we reached the end, Xiong Batian was already standing there waiting.

At the end was a wooden door with carved patterns, the patterns inlaid with dried dark red. There was no lock, and Xiong Batian pushed it open.

The four people went inside, and Zhou Lang closed the door behind him.

The crying was abruptly cut off, and the sudden silence created a slight tinnitus in the ears, as if something was still hanging in the ear and wouldn't go away.

Zhao Qiang leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He looked up and saw Zhou Lang looking around as if nothing had happened. He said weakly, "Could you act a little more nervous? I'm not sure if I'm just too fragile or if you're acting too strangely."

"You're too fragile," Zhou Lang said, "and your palms are sweaty, my sleeves are all sweaty from you."

Zhao Qiang looked down at his hands and did not refute.

The space on the third basement level wasn't large, just enough to fit the coffin.

It was black, made of thick wood, with a smooth surface and no decoration. It was almost twice as wide as a regular coffin and placed in the center with the lid closed.

Xiong Batian circled the coffin once, then bent down to look at the bottom: "This thing is connected to the ground—it grew out of the bottom of the coffin and went deep into the soil, like roots."

Han Yingying squatted down to take a look, and it was indeed there. The coffin wood extended downwards, blending into the soil on the ground, making it impossible to distinguish where the coffin ended and the ground began.

"The old butler said that lamp can be used to open the coffin," Zhao Qiang said, looking at Zhou Lang. "Want to try it?"

"He said it's theoretically possible, but he didn't say it would definitely work," Zhou Lang moved the oil lamp above the coffin lid. "Let's see the reaction first."

As the green light fell, the grain of the coffin wood began to glow, emanating from within, faint yet clear.

Zhou Lang stared at it for a few seconds and recognized it—it was the decoration above the main gate of the manor. He had seen it on the first day he entered the manor and thought it was just ordinary carving.

"These symbols are everywhere in the manor," Han Yingying recognized them, "on the doors, on the railings, on the buttons of the butler's clothes."

"The manor is its own, the coffin is its own, and this lamp is its own," Zhou Lang said. "They all bear the same set of markings."

"So we're basically stealing from their house now?" Zhao Qiang said.