Chapter 40
[Rule-Type Dungeon: “Flesh and Blood Apartment.” Maximum players: 30. Current players: 8. Recruiting the remaining 22…]
[Recruitment successful.]
[Dungeon Information: In this apartment, only your flesh and your soul are truly valuable.]
[Dungeon Requirement: Successfully obtain the identity of a formal resident in the apartment. Failure will result in a deduction of 200,000 game points.]
[Special Requirement (optional): Before the landlord officially announces a new rule, find and submit one additional rule. Doing so will increase your evaluation.]
[Dungeon Hint 1: Only those who obey the rules can gain the favor of the Masters. Those who break them will be seen by Them.
Dungeon Hint 2: The landlord favors tenants who pay extra rent. The more rent you pay, the more willing He will be to protect you.
Dungeon Hint 3: Rules are both protection and shackles.]
Lu Chuan opened his eyes and found himself standing with Mei Xue and the others in front of a dilapidated apartment building.
Fog drifted all around the apartment, thick and murky, as though hiding terrifying things inside.
Of course, Lu Chuan himself didn’t feel afraid. It was only after seeing the summoned 22 players trembling uncontrollably that he realized the things hidden in the mist must be quite terrifying.
Beside him, Lilus glanced at Lu Chuan, then quickly looked away.
The summoned players looked as if they were in mourning, their legs nearly giving out from fright.
“A rule-type dungeon? We’re finished.”
“Why? I only skipped a few months of missions, why was I dragged here?”
“Someone set me up! They deliberately pushed me into this!”
“If I’d known I’d be sent into a rule-type dungeon, I would’ve passed the last one no matter what.”
…
Among these 22 players, some were terrified, some managed to remain barely calm, but most were on the verge of collapse.
There were generally only three reasons why players would be forcibly summoned like this.
The first type: “Delayed-entry players.”
In this cruel game, players must regularly enter dungeons. At lower levels, it may be once per month; at higher levels, once per year. But some players cling to false hope, stalling and avoiding entry. When that happens, the system forcibly summons them to whichever dungeon still lacks enough players.
Most of the time, this meant unlucky players would be thrown into high-level dungeons as cannon fodder—rarely returning alive. Thanks to the game guilds spreading “basic knowledge,” there were now fewer players foolish enough to risk this.
The second type: “Debt players.”
These were players who had failed a dungeon without dying.
Some dungeons weren’t fatal. Failure simply meant paying the penalty before being allowed to leave. If a player failed once, they had to clear their next dungeon to repay the debt. If successful, everything returned to normal.
But if they failed again—three times in a row without dying—they would be randomly teleported into a high-level dungeon as repayment.
For example: failing three consecutive C-level dungeons meant the next had to be cleared at B-level. Fail again without dying, and you’d be sent even higher—like a form of dungeon “loan sharking.”
There were quite a lot of these “debt players.” After all, while game points couldn’t be traded, items could. And though dungeons changed due to player intervention, some dungeons and NPCs remained relatively stable, allowing strategy guides. Many players risked entering “old dungeons” for items, even if they failed. But with enough failures stacked, fate eventually caught up.
The third type: “Escape-item players.”
When facing inevitable death, some players used forced-escape items to survive.
But true escape items didn’t exist here—every one of them came with side effects.
Some required you to enter three consecutive dungeons within one month after use. Others demanded a body part or ability in exchange. Some ejected you from one deadly dungeon only to randomly throw you into another.
The weaker the side effects, the rarer the item. Only senior members of the Five Great Game Guilds had access to such items—perks granted by the Main God to elite players.
For ordinary players using low-tier items, survival depended entirely on luck.
Clearly, these 22 summoned players hadn’t been lucky.
*
“You’re with one of the Five Great Guilds, aren’t you?”
“I think I saw you in the paper—you’re a top player from the Noah Guild!”
“Please, take us with you!”
“We promise we won’t hold you back.”
…
The other players immediately turned their attention to Mei Xue and Gu Quan’an, who remained calm and collected.
Both were often featured in newspapers, widely recognized.
For the 22 unlucky players, encountering them here was perhaps the best stroke of luck they could hope for.
“As long as you can pay 20 sanity points, 20 pounds of your own flesh, plus a deduction of one million game points, you can count this dungeon as failed and leave,” Gu Quan’an said bluntly. “That’s the only way out besides clearing it. If you don’t have enough points, you’ll be erased instantly.”
“One million game points? We don’t have that kind of money!”
“What do we do? What do we do?”
“Let’s just stick with the pros.”
…
Many players broke down crying, while a few seemed capable of paying the cost—but hesitated to show it.
What if Gu Quan’an’s method was wrong?
Besides, players who had that many points usually had confidence in themselves. Following elite players from the Five Guilds was an opportunity: not only could they clear this dungeon, but it would also boost their rank, and look good on their record if they applied to another guild. Clearing this would also wipe away prior failures or item side effects—a gamble worth taking.
But few had the courage. Most simply wailed like they were already attending their own funeral.
And yet, none dared rush toward Mei Xue or Gu Quan’an.
The oppressive aura radiating from high-level players was as terrifying as the monsters hiding in the mist.
Lu Chuan studied the group, quickly assessing their level.
If game points could be transferred, these players might already be killing each other.
For Lu Chuan and his companions, one million points was trivial—they could earn that by clearing a few high-level dungeons. But for ordinary players, even 100,000 was a fortune. With no way to reliably obtain items in dungeons, they had to purchase them from the system—leaving them perpetually broke.
How could they possibly have that much left over?
[Host, there are many divine familiars hidden in this fog—failed ones.] #888’s voice was grave. [Our God of Wealth merely withholds fortune from non-believers. But other gods are far harsher—they strike unbelievers with divine punishment.]
“I think not letting people earn money is already a terrifying punishment,” Lu Chuan said sincerely.
Throughout history, far more people had died from poverty than from freak accidents.
#888 fell silent for a moment, then protested: [But our God of Wealth doesn’t deliberately make people poor. That’s the domain of the God of Poverty—it has nothing to do with us.]
Lu Chuan nodded indifferently, clearly unconcerned.
#888 fumed in silence.
“In a moment, we’ll all go in,” Mei Xue said firmly. “Remember this: follow every rule the landlord gives. If you want to accept the price of leaving, then do it early. The deeper the dungeon goes, the more dangerous it becomes.”
With that, Mei Xue and Gu Quan’an walked ahead. The others followed nervously behind, including the 22 summoned players, not daring to make a sound—terrified that one wrong move might get them cast out.
They entered the apartment lobby, and Lu Chuan glanced around at the scene, feeling disappointed.
The building had looked shabby from the outside, and the inside was no better—equally dilapidated.
It resembled a run-down guesthouse from the 1960s or 70s, simple and crude. The front desk was an old, yellowish counter plastered with small ads.
Things like “Innocent girl, hot and wild XXXXX,” “Professional Locksmith XXXXX,” “Takeout Stir-Fry XXXXX,” “Low-Interest Loans XXXXX,” and so on—every ad a different kind of gaudy spam.
Behind the desk sat two elderly figures: a skinny old woman in her eighties, nearly toothless, reading a newspaper; and a hunched old man wearing an ancient cloth cap, puffing on a dry tobacco pipe.
However, when Lu Chuan and the others approached together, they noticed something off about the newspaper in the old woman’s hands. The texture was unusually fine, but the edges were uneven and slightly curled. Moving closer, they could even smell a faint stench of blood wafting from it.
It was actually human skin!
And the old man puffing on his dry pipe—his pipe stem was made from a piece of white bone. No one knew what kind of tobacco was burning inside it.
Scattered around them—on their bodies, behind their chairs, and on the ground—were several wooden barrels. Each barrel was filled with fresh chunks of flesh, some still bearing tattoos.
“So many guests all at once… we don’t have many vacant rooms left.” The old woman grinned, showing the few teeth she had left, stained with suspicious traces of blood.
Their appearance, coupled with the strange objects around them, was enough to make the players’ scalps prickle in fear.
But Mei Xue and Gu Quan’an seemed utterly unbothered. They stepped forward calmly, “Landlords, we’re here to stay. Just show us the price list, no need to explain further.”
Gu Quan’an added, “If you want to change rooms or do anything else, don’t believe what they say out loud. They’ll quote random prices. Only what’s written on the price list is real.”
As expected from veterans—so experienced.
The other players they had gathered looked at Mei Xue and Gu Quan’an with a touch of hope.
“Oh, regular customers, are you?” The old woman squinted at Mei Xue, then slowly pulled a crumpled sheet from a drawer.
Clearly written on it were the lodging prices:
Single room: 3 Sanity Points or 10 jin of flesh / per person / per night.
Double room: 2 Sanity Points or 6 jin of flesh / per person / per night.
Triple room: 1.5 Sanity Points or 4 jin of flesh / per person / per night.
The inn provides one free meal per day. Payment is settled daily. No credit allowed.
Lu Chuan took one look and immediately saw the trick. For individual players, the triple room was clearly the most cost-effective, but for the landlords, that’s where they earned the most.
“I want a single room,” Mei Xue said right away. “The rest of you can decide for yourselves. Single rooms are safest, and you don’t have to worry about betrayal from roommates, but they’re also the most expensive. Triple rooms are cheaper, but they come with more uncertainties.”
Gu Quan’an also asked for a single room.
“Should we take a double?” Lu Chuan asked, blushing, lowering his head and speaking as softly as a mosquito, but still extending the invitation to Lilus.
Lilus froze only briefly before agreeing. “Alright.”
[Host, are you doing this just to save money?] #888 sounded puzzled. Why hadn’t Lu Chuan picked the safest single or the cheapest triple?
“I prefer middle-ground choices,” Lu Chuan said without hesitation.
[Hm?] #888 was still confused.
“Haha, it’s just a habit from the world I grew up in,” Lu Chuan chuckled. “I can’t pay with Sanity Points or flesh for a single room anyway. And besides—those ranked 3rd and 4th on the Newcomer Ranking List, they’re just here to leech experience. Isn’t it more convenient to room together? I’m actually quite curious about his claws.”
Mei Xue and Gu Quan’an didn’t seem to care what Lu Chuan chose. The top-tier players they brought along also followed their lead and each chose a single room.
Of the 22 remaining players, some opted for singles, some for doubles, and some for triples.
Not one chose to pay with flesh and Sanity Points just to leave the dungeon early.
They weren’t idiots. If they left a rules-type dungeon alive, the next dungeon they entered would exact a terrifying price for their failure.
They weren’t high-ranking players from the Five Great Game Guilds. They had no alternatives.
“Come pay your rent first,” the old woman said, producing a huge wooden barrel out of thin air, while the old man took out a blank balance scale.
Both objects were clearly high-level.
Lu Chuan’s eyes lit up.
“Will you be paying with flesh, or with Sanity?” the old woman chuckled. “Flesh with me, Sanity with the old man.”
“I’ll pay in flesh.” Mei Xue was the first to step up, placing her hand on the barrel.
Her figure instantly grew gaunter, while a thin layer of flesh appeared at the barrel’s bottom.
Her face turned pale, but she didn’t rush to heal herself. She simply rested until some color returned.
With her as the example, others stepped forward one by one to pay their rent.
Only the thinner players, or those lacking healing items, chose to pay with Sanity instead.
As long as one’s Sanity stayed above 98, paying a few points early on didn’t matter too much.
Still, every player who paid looked grim afterward, like they wanted to curse out loud.
When it came to Lu Chuan and Lilus, of course they paid with flesh.
Their Sanity wasn’t high enough to spare.
But when Lu Chuan pressed his hand on the barrel, the Main System’s voice rang in his mind:
[Player contact with A-rank item “Barrel of Proliferation” detected. Upon contact, part of the user’s body tissue will be consumed, granting temporary safety.]
Immediately, Lu Chuan felt drained, his body lighter, his clothes suddenly a bit looser.
Good lord—if this thing were rented out for weight loss, it’d make a fortune!
You could win a Nobel Peace Prize with this barrel!
Lu Chuan eyed the so-called “Barrel of Proliferation,” already imagining a hundred marketing schemes.
[Warning: During this item’s effect, all healing items will decrease in effectiveness by 10% per use.]
Before he could get carried away, the Main System prompted again. Lu Chuan frowned, finally understanding why the others had looked so frustrated after paying.
So the more you paid, the less effective healing became?
Even so, he now understood why nobody healed themselves immediately after paying.
If healing items got weaker each time, then it made sense to wait and treat yourself all at once.
“Here are your room cards, one per person.” The landlords only handed them out after collecting rent.
That’s when Lu Chuan noticed—each room only had one card. For shared rooms, the card went to the first person who paid.
And since he’d paid before Lilus, the room card ended up in his hand.
On the front: 203.
On the back, in tiny script, were three rules:
- Guests may collect one breakfast daily at 8 AM with their card. If the card is lost, see the landlords to replace it. The inn bears no responsibility for consequences arising from a lost card.
- At midnight, advertisements will be slipped under your door. The inn takes no responsibility for their content. Guests must judge for themselves.
- House rules increase daily. Guests must renew their stay and update their card with the landlords by noon each day. Discovering new rules early entitles you to one free day’s stay.
“Alright, go on and find your rooms,” the old man grumbled around his pipe, impatient. The old woman snatched it from him and banged the barrel with it. “Smoke, smoke, you’ll smoke yourself to death! Hurry up and show the guests to their rooms!”
The old man had no choice but to lead the way. Mei Xue and the others followed at once.
Lu Chuan tossed the room card to Lilus. “We’ll take turns holding onto it, one day each.”
Lilus nodded and tried to stash it in his system storage, only to find it couldn’t be stored—he had to carry it on him.
With no choice, he slipped it into his pocket and joined Lu Chuan in heading to room 203.
The room layout was obvious:
First floor: single rooms.
Second floor: double rooms.
Third floor: triple rooms.
Room numbers followed rent-payment order, so Mei Xue got 101, Gu Quan’an 102, and so on.
The building had only one narrow concrete staircase, just wide enough for a single adult.
When Lu Chuan and Lilus reached 203, they didn’t open the door immediately. Instead, they exchanged a glance and scanned their surroundings first.
On the second floor, rooms lined both sides of the hall—about ten per side. In the middle was a shared washing area: eight faucets, four toilets, and an old-style drum washing machine.
Each room was no more than five square meters. One bunk bed, a small desk, two stools.
Barely livable.
The bunks were narrow and low, forcing both men to curl up to fit. Each had only a sheet of newspaper as bedding—nothing else.
It was pitiful.
Sure, they weren’t here for comfort, but still—this was too much.
“What kind of coffin room is this?” Lilus cursed.
“…Isn’t this just my old worker dorm?” Lu Chuan was stunned.
The layout, the décor—it was exactly like the free dorms he’d used while doing odd jobs. When he worked late and couldn’t go home, he’d crash there for the night.
He never expected to see the same setup again in this infinite world.
Lilus was startled. “Has your Star Guild fallen so far they stick you in places like this?”
Lu Chuan couldn’t be bothered to explain. “I come from an ordinary background. Alright, since neither of us is pretending anymore, let’s just cooperate properly. After all, we’re roommates now—Mei Xue and the others won’t care if we live or die.”
“Fine.” Lilus crossed his arms. “I won’t be sleeping tonight. I plan to go out and scout around. The tenant rules don’t say we can’t leave our rooms. If we’re not allowed to go out, then there’s no way to explore new rules at all.”
Rule-based instances wouldn’t set up something so boring. Most likely, players just weren’t allowed to leave the building itself.
From the outside, the apartment seemed to have eight floors. Yet the rooms they rented only took up three of them. What were the other five floors for? And besides the players, were there other tenants living in the remaining rooms? These were all questions that needed investigating.
“I won’t go out. I’ll wait here for the flyers that get passed out at midnight.” Lu Chuan propped his face on one hand and grinned. “I’m quite interested in those.”
Author’s Note:
Lu Chuan: I miss it—both worlds’ dorms are equally trash!
