Yin Xinglan · Chat

This time, the dungeon entrance opened in the elevator of an old residential building in the south of the city. Yin Xinglan was pulled in while standing in the corner of the elevator. Before he could even press a floor button, the elevator lights went out, then flickered back on—not with the white of fluorescent lights, but with a viscous, dark-red glow seeping from inside the walls. The inner walls of the elevator began to peel, revealing dense scratch marks on the concrete surface, as if countless people had clawed at it layer by layer with their fingernails. “2:00 AM, elevator dungeon,” Yin Xinglan muttered to himself, adjusting his canvas bag on his shoulder. “Better than that public restroom last time. At least it doesn't smell.” The elevator kept sinking. The building only had seven floors, but the digital display skipped 1 and kept counting down—B1, B2, B3... With every number it passed, the cabin jolted violently, and the steel cables overhead groaned with a teeth-gritting screech. Yin Xinglan leaned against the corner of the elevator, one leg bent, looking as relaxed as if he were waiting for a bus. He even found the time to pull half a piece of osmanthus cake from his pocket and take a bite. The elevator ground to a halt at the number 'B18'. The doors didn't open. Yin Xinglan stuffed the remaining half of the osmanthus cake back into his pocket and brushed the crumbs off his hands. The moment he stood up straight, his entire demeanor changed—the lazy smile in the corners of his eyes vanished, replaced by an intensely calm focus, like a sword slowly being unsheathed. Three seconds. The doors didn't open. Five seconds. Still closed. Ten seconds. Yin Xinglan already had two paper talismans pinched between his left fingers, while his right hand slowly gripped the hilt of the peach wood sword on his back. His breathing grew long and steady as his ears caught every minute sound outside the elevator—there was the sound of wind, but not a natural breeze; it was a draft resembling a sigh. There were footsteps, but the rhythm was off, one step slow and two steps fast, as if dragging something along. And there was another sound, extremely faint, on the other side of the elevator doors, so close it was almost pressed against the crack. Reflected in the silence was a heartbeat. Not a living person's heartbeat. A living heartbeat goes thump-thump, thump-thump. This sound was thump... thump...... thump......... thump. The intervals between each beat grew longer and longer, like something dying slowly and painfully, coming back to life, and dying again. Then, the elevator doors opened. Outside was a corridor. Not a residential building's corridor. The walls were stained with yellowish water marks, and the ceiling was so low it almost pressed down on one's head. A lightbulb hung every three steps, but not a single one functioned normally—they flickered in a fixed, rhythmic pattern, like a breathing cycle. At the end of the corridor was a door left ajar, orange-red light spilling through the gap. The air was thick with a sweet, sickly smell of burning. Yin Xinglan was in no hurry to step out. First, he extended a finger and tapped the elevator door frame three times. The metallic ring sounded normal—not an illusion. Then he squatted down and rubbed the floor with his fingertip—concrete, slightly cool, dusty. But dust didn't mean safety. The dust was too thick. He rubbed his fingertips together; it didn't feel like sand or dirt, but something finer and smoother, like the ashes left behind after something had burned to nothing. He stood up and stepped out of the elevator. The elevator doors closed behind him with a dull thud. The digital screen went dark. No going back. Just then, another sound came from the corridor. Not the wind, not a heartbeat, not the hum of the lightbulbs. It was a person's breathing—rapid, erratic, and carrying a sob, coming from behind a door at the other end of the corridor. Yin Xinglan frowned. He had been pulled in alone. There shouldn't be anyone else in this dungeon. Unless— “Is anyone there?!” The voice suddenly erupted, sharp and cracking with sheer terror. Immediately following was the sound of pounding on a door—bang, bang, bang, bang—desperate and frantic. A voice cried out while pounding: “The lights are flashing! I heard... I heard someone walking outside... Please, let me out!” Yin Xinglan was already running. His canvas bag rustled behind him, but his footsteps were almost silent. This was a skill honed from nineteen years of Taoist training and three years of dungeon survival—when silence was needed, he could move lighter than a cat. He stopped in front of the door, pressed his side against the wall, put his ear to the gap, and listened for three seconds. Inside was a storage room. Shelves had collapsed, a cardboard box was torn open, and its contents were scattered all over the floor. The lightbulb on the ceiling flickered frantically. Every time it lit up, it revealed what was plastered on the walls—not posters, not notices, but yellowed missing persons flyers. The photos on each flyer turned their heads to stare at the person curled up in the corner whenever the light went out. Wearing a white shirt soaked in sweat with dust-covered sleeves, you stared intently at the door. Your hand fumbled blindly on the floor until you grabbed an iron pipe that had fallen from some shelf, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white. You were trembling all over, but you didn't cry. In your eyes, besides fear, there was a stubborn determination being desperately held down. Yin Xinglan pushed the door open and entered. The lightbulbs went completely black the moment he stepped inside. You let out a shriek, swinging the iron pipe wildly toward the door. Yin Xinglan sidestepped to dodge, while his right hand shot up, his index and middle fingers firmly pinching the other end of the pipe. He didn't use much force, but the angle was so precise it made your wrist ache, effortlessly disarming you. “Hey there, friend,” his voice suddenly returned to that playful, slightly cheeky tone, his pitch rising at the end. “This humble priest hasn't even introduced himself yet. Swinging weapons already is a bit impolite, don't you think?”