[Falling into Nightmare, instance generation in progress...]
[Special property detected in the current instance: Replay]
[Instance regeneration in progress...]
[Instance difficulty is Twisted, with unlimited entries]
[Current purification rate is 38/350]
[Team’s current total erosion rate is 8%, instance difficulty increased by 8%, probability of Nightmare distortions increased by 8%]
[This instance has 6 save points, each death increases the erosion rate by 2%]
[This instance does not provide an introductory plot, but there are decryption rewards]
[Instance clearance rewards: the first two layers—any chosen profession below bronze level (including bronze level) increased by 1 to 2 levels; the last four layers—any chosen profession below silver level (including bronze level) increased by 1 to 4 levels]
[Instance decryption reward: Unknown]
Annan’s world was pitch black as data streams rushed downwards.
At that moment, he suddenly felt an intense urge to vomit in his stomach... It didn’t seem to be an illusion. At least for Annan, he rarely experienced illusions.
When the data stream finally faded completely, a faint and ethereal whisper suddenly sounded in his ears:
"Do not look back..."
It was the voice of an old man, "Never look back..."
The voice came from behind Annan, very aged and weak, yet incredibly clear.
As if it was clinging tightly behind him, whispering into his ear.
Before opening his eyes, Annan had the thought to open his panel first.
Inside the instance, the only things Annan could see were his health and erosion rate, but that was enough...
The total team erosion rate that Annan heard when he entered the instance had made him somewhat uneasy.
This was supposed to be a solo instance, could it be...
After opening the panel, two solitary numbers appeared before him:
...Indeed, had he unknowingly died twice already?
"I really don’t have any memory of it at all..."
Annan frowned slightly.
It was a bit troublesome. Death without memory inheritance... That meant that mistakes could fully repeat themselves.
If it were someone else here, they might panic at the thought of this never-ending cycle of death.
But while Annan found it bothersome, he had no fear in his heart.
It’s because he knew himself very well. To use a somewhat strange metaphor... like a viewer.
His self-awareness was like that of an audience member regarding a character in a TV show, film or animation. Because he knew everything that had happened in the past, he was detached and on the outside, so he could understand why his emotions existed and what influences had shaped his decisions.
Even without inherited memory. As long as the one acting in the first two cycles was still "Annan", then he had the confidence to decipher the messages he left for himself—
Annan opened his eyes.
Before him was a long gallery ablaze with light. The corridor was spacious enough for ten people to walk side by side, unadorned on both sides.
The ceiling was graced with crystal-clear chandeliers, the burning candles through them illuminating the entire hallway. Only the end of the corridor, within the open door, was dim.
He looked down at himself and could not determine his identity from his clothes. He could only roughly ascertain that the body was male, in its thirties, hands clean without calluses, dressed simply and neatly with comfortable fabric, probably at least free from financial pressure.
"Gallery... Could it be that ’I’ am an artist?"
No hints, no introductory plot.
Annan noticed that his abdomen was slowly seeping blood.
By the pain, it seemed he had been stabbed with a dagger not long ago. Judging from the location, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of internal organ damage.
"Ah, I’m injured. There’s blood all over the floor."
He said calmly, without any expression.
While he bent down to examine his injury, he accidentally discovered, by observing his shadow, that the light from the fire in the room was exceptionally stable.
There was entirely none of that unsettling, flickering light and shadow caused by the tremble of candle flames when disturbed by airflow.
Annan narrowed his eyes slightly, in no rush to move inside.
He recalled the strategy that Priest Louis had given him.
To be on the safe side, Priest Louis had written many things over and over. But Annan could basically summarize them into three sentences:
First, do not focus on any single painting, but also do not close your eyes.
Second, at every fork in the road, always take the side with paintings.
Third, no matter what happens, do not look back.
According to Priest Louis, as long as Annan strictly followed the strategy above, he should be able to leave safely.
...So the question arose.
Why had Annan died twice here?
"Following my habits, the first time I enter a dungeon..."
Annan murmured to himself, "I would certainly follow the strategy to the letter."
He already knew beforehand that in this dungeon, death would lead to memory loss, so all his actions during the first cycle would necessarily provide a "standard behavior" for reference to his future selves.
The problem was... what had he done the second time?
At what point did he die during those two times?
"...This is getting interesting."
A slight smile curled at the corner of Annan’s mouth.
In the face of imminent danger, he felt a clear surge of excitement and exhilaration deep inside him.
He didn’t gaze at any of the paintings but simply walked forward slowly.
He did not want to hurry, but the wound in his abdomen kept tugging at him. And when Annan tried to force himself to walk faster, his health would suddenly plummet.
"Limiting the movement speed, huh..."
Annan murmured softly.
If he were to design this level...
He would definitely set up a chase that would force players to jog. He would suppress the players with the dual fears of rapidly falling health and the imminent threat behind them.
He squinted slightly as he approached the end of the corridor.
Annan controlled the amplitude of his steps, measuring the length with his footsteps rather than his gaze.
"...Exactly one hundred meters."
After pushing open the door at the end of the corridor, he found an L-shaped corner ahead of him, turning right at the end.
This short corner was very dark and bereft of any lighting, and it was narrow too, less than three meters in width and quite short in length.
But at the end of the corner, there was a faint glow of light, as if beckoning Annan to hurry through this place.
Everything here was dim, and Annan could only ascertain that many framed paintings still hung on both sides. Almost every one of them was a portrait.
He glanced over them with his peripheral vision and confirmed that all the people in these frames were watching him.
"This time it’s twenty meters."
As Annan rounded the first corner, he still didn’t find anything special. On the other side of the corner was a narrow space of less than ten meters. On the left stood a display cabinet for collectibles, and on the right was a coat rack.
But both in the cabinet and on the rack, there was nothing at all. Everything was empty... as if a player had swept through.
At the end of this narrow space, there was a door. The door was brownish-red, somewhat worn, but otherwise unremarkable.
Annan smiled slightly and opened the door with composure.
Then, he saw the familiar, brightly lit long gallery.
It was as if he had returned to the starting point.
Yet, witnessing this eerie and thrilling scene, Annan couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
After he finished laughing, he walked into the gallery with a grin and casually closed the door behind him.
"PT, huh... I’m familiar with this one."
Annan murmured softly.
The corners of his mouth twisted up strangely.