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

"perhaps."

"Then aren't we going to die?"

"He's not dead yet. Let's see what's inside first."

Zhou Lang held the oil lamp close to the coffin lid. The light flickered, and a soft click came from the edge of the coffin lid. One of the fasteners loosened, revealing a thin gap from beginning to end.

Cold air seeped out from the cracks, even colder than the original temperature of the third underground level, carrying an old, accumulated smell that wasn't rotten, just old, as if a cellar sealed for a hundred years had been opened.

Then came the sound of breathing.

It was steady and slow, with long intervals between each breath. It wasn't the rhythm of a living person; it was more like something surviving in its own way.

None of the four people moved.

The contents of the coffin remained still, only breathing, releasing cold air through the crack, little by little, continuously.

Xiong Batian lowered his voice: "It's awake?"

"I'm not sure," Zhou Lang said, "but it sensed that someone was here."

Zhao Qiang took a step back and stepped on Han Yingying's foot.

Han Yingying gritted her teeth and remained silent, whispering, "What do we do now?"

Zhou Lang removed the oil lamp from the coffin, the green light receded, and the patterns darkened. The cracks didn't disappear, but the breathing sounds weakened, as if something was sinking deeper.

"Let's go, that's enough for today."

"Just leave like this?" Xiong Batian frowned. "We're already here."

"Since we're already here, we need to get out of here alive," Zhou Lang said, already heading towards the door. "If you want to stay and keep it company overnight, that's fine, we're not going to keep you company."

Xiong Batian didn't argue anymore and followed him away.

Before coming out, Zhou Lang paused at the door and glanced back at the coffin.

The gap was still there, the cold air was still dissipating, and the sound of breathing was no longer audible. I don't know if it really sank back in, or if it's sensing the outside world in a different way.

He put his hand in his pocket and touched the glass shade of the oil lamp; it was still warm.

The game rewarded him with this lamp, its description stating it "illuminates the darkness." What it has illuminated so far is more worthy of study than any darkness itself.

He turned around and followed the other three.

Back on the ground, the ghosts in the corridor were the same ones, automatically stepping aside and making way for the oil lamp. But this time, Zhou Lang noticed that several ghosts' eyes were fixed on his pocket, staring at the oil lamp. The way they stared wasn't out of fear, but rather as if they recognized something and then stopped in place, unsure whether to approach.

I recognized the light.

Those ghosts were transformed from living people. When they were alive, they had seen this lamp, or the thing that held the lamp.

Zhou Lang pushed open the door, sat on the bed, and placed the oil lamp on the bedside table. The green light shone on the ceiling, quiet and seemingly ordinary.

He stared at it for a while, the old butler's words echoing in his mind—this is the light it uses to find its way.

That raises a question: how did this lamp end up in the game's reward item pool? Either the item voluntarily gave it up, or someone took it. Neither possibility is simple, and neither is something he can figure out right now.

He buried the question in some corner of his mind, lay down, and went to sleep.

Breakfast the next day.

Zhao Qiang sat down opposite Zhou Lang and poked the rim of Zhou Lang's bowl with his chopsticks: "Did you notice anything strange after you got home last night?"

"No, what about you?"

"When I returned to my room, I found something under the bed."

Zhao Qiang took out a small folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and saw neat, old-fashioned calligraphy written with a brush:

"The manor will change hands in three days."

Zhou Lang stared at those words, thinking of the coffin, the narrow crack, and the slow, steady breathing.

"What do you think?" Zhao Qiang asked.

Zhou Lang flipped the paper over; the back was blank. He folded it back and handed it to Zhao Qiang, saying, "I think we have at most three more days to move around here."

"And what about three days later?"

"This instance will end in three days, whether you clear it or fail," Zhou Lang said, picking up his bowl. "So we need to hurry."

Zhao Qiang held the piece of paper, remained silent for a moment, and then said, "I wish I hadn't chosen this instance."

"It's pointless to say this," Zhou Lang said calmly. "You know that yourself."

"...Can't you even offer a word of comfort?"

"Yes, but you know it's useless. It's like I'm wasting everyone's time."

Zhao Qiang: ...

He put the paper back in his pocket, lowered his head to eat, and occasionally glanced out the window. In the morning light, the manor's courtyard looked no different from any other courtyard, if one ignored the transparent ghost in the corner peering into the water tank.

"By the way," Zhou Lang suddenly spoke up, "have you thought about contacting your sister within the last three days?"

Zhao Qiang paused, his chopsticks hovering in mid-air. "Go ahead, of course I want to..." He hesitated, realizing his question was odd. "Why are you asking this?"

Zhou Lang didn't answer, but lowered his head and took a sip of soup.

Zhao Qiang stared at him, thought for a while, and suddenly remembered—Zhou Lang's sister disappeared after the strange occurrence, which was the fundamental reason why Zhou Lang entered the game.

"What do you think..." Zhao Qiang began, then stopped, unsure how to continue.

"We haven't found it yet," Zhou Lang put down his bowl, speaking as if he were giving a weather forecast, "but it's only a matter of time."

Zhao Qiang looked at him, wanting to say something, but in the end he didn't say anything. He just put down his chopsticks and nodded seriously.

Zhou Lang stood up, picked up the bowls and plates to return them, and walked away in the light of the canteen, looking no different from any other ordinary worker—except for the green oil lamp that was always lit in his pocket.

Han Yingying sat down next to Zhao Qiang with her bowl in hand, watching his retreating figure leave the cafeteria. She lowered her head to drink her porridge and asked, "Do you think he'll find it?"

Zhao Qiang thought for a moment, then finished the last bit of rice in his bowl and put it down.

"He won't come in if he can't find it." #Chapter 11 Basement

There is a corridor at the bottom of the basement.

Calling it a corridor is too kind—it's more like a man-made tunnel. The stone walls are rough, seeping with black water stains, and the ground is a bit slippery underfoot. The green light from the oil lamp is very limited in this place, illuminating only a small area. Two meters ahead, it's pitch black, and you can't see the way you came behind.

Zhou Lang walked in front. Zhao Qiang followed behind him, his footsteps three times louder, the sound of his boots echoing rhythmically on the stone ground. Han Yingying was at the back, quiet, but she kept tugging at Zhao Qiang's sleeve—he wasn't watching where he was going and had already stepped on her twice.

"Can't you look down while you're walking?"

"I'm looking into it; it's just that he naturally walks with his gait veering outwards, it's congenital."

"Congenital conditions can be cured. It costs 300 yuan to step on the foot once. If you accumulate the cost, the condition will improve quickly."

Zhao Qiang moved his foot away.

The corridor didn't branch out; it went straight ahead for about two minutes until a door appeared in front of us.