Return Still a Youth, But Saved 30 Years of Detours

With new abilities and practical combat skills in hand, this dungeon was finally no longer a "Deadly" threat, but a "Moderate" one that could be cleared through sheer strength.

However, Zhang Anzai did not let his guard down because of this: "Deadly means nine deaths for one life, but Moderate still implies a risk to one's life. Even if I'm not some clueless rookie player, this is the Reflected World after all; even 'Easy' dungeons require a life-or-death struggle to clear..."

The longer one serves as an administrator, the more familiar one becomes with the Ancient Shadow Records' nasty habits—it loves to trap people to death without a second thought.

As the sensory connection to his other body gradually stabilized, Zhang Anzai tested out multitasking with his newly acquired "Dexterous" talent.

The results were quite good; the player body functioned normally, while the main body could simultaneously receive visual information from its surroundings and clearly see every detail on the screen.

However, since this ability was merely intended to facilitate manual labor, processing information was its limit; if the main body attempted complex tasks like navigating interface pages, the player body would begin to experience restrictions.

Regardless, it was still an improvement.

He pondered this while observing his surroundings; he was standing at the entrance of a factory-like space, a massive rolling shutter door behind him.

Before him stood row upon row of oversized, four-to-five-meter-tall industrial shelves, bolted to the floor and packed with all manner of miscellaneous goods.

There were vintage-style leather suitcases stacked neatly on the shelves against the wall, along with a chaotic assortment of imitation-ancient metal vessels like incense burners and candlesticks.

Large and small porcelain vases, clay pots, random wooden tables and chairs, various household appliances, flags, and deity statues. Straw mats, handcarts, swords, spears, and halberds.

A single glance revealed a dazzling array of items; many were even tied with ropes and hung along the edges of the shelves or suspended from the steel beams of the ceiling, such as strings of garlic and chili peppers, or bundles of lanterns and scrolls.

"Could this be..." Zhang Anzai understood the nature of the scene before him with a single sweep of his eyes.

"This mess, it's all props, isn't it?"

He looked down at his own attire: a white T-shirt, cropped trousers, a plain, inexperienced look, clear eyes, and clean white sneakers—at a glance, he was clearly a college student.

Seeing this highly familiar state, Zhang Anzai felt as if he had returned to his youth.

"I feel... I feel like someone is watching me." Before Zhang Anzai could even reminisce about his college days, he turned his head.

A large golden retriever with long fur was squatting three or four steps away, beside a shelf.

The dog looked quite old; not only was its fur thick, but the skin on its face showed signs of sagging. Although it didn't move, just sitting there quietly watching him, it still gave off an air of senility.

The old dog was quiet, rarely moving or barking. That was just how the dog was; logically, it was perfectly normal.

Yet, for some reason, being stared at by this dog made Zhang Anzai feel that something was off.

"Lights out soon, time to get to work." Just then, a voice came from behind the dog.

Zhang Anzai looked up toward the sound. His expression, still uncertain about the dungeon's state, fit the image of a naive college student perfectly.

A young man who had emerged from between the shelves stood with his arms crossed behind the dog.

He was very thin, wearing a striped shirt, his hair long and curled like instant noodles. His complexion was pale, and his eyes looked somewhat decadent, as if he stayed up late often.

At first glance, Zhang Anzai was actually startled, because the white striped shirt the man wore was stained with many red spots; judging by the color and texture, they looked like bloodstains.

The man looked down at his clothes, then calmly remarked, "It's hard not to get a little stained when making props. If you want to work in this industry after graduation, don't be so surprised."

He waved his hand and walked toward the depths of the factory: "I'm going to turn off the lights; you get ready to start your patrol."

Zhang Anzai watched him and the old dog walk into the factory, digesting the information while patting his own body.

"Phone... keys... flashlight?" He wasn't surprised that he had nothing but his phone; if a college student didn't smoke, what else would they carry?

But this large ring of keys and a flashlight?

"Buzz..." The surroundings suddenly flickered.

He looked up; the rows of oversized warm-light floodlights inside the factory flashed and then went out.

Only the small green emergency exit lights on the walls remained, casting a faint glow.

The green light flickered in his eyes: "You are an ordinary student majoring in Stage and Film Art Design at a second-tier college, feeling quite lost about your future.

During your senior internship, you hit walls everywhere, eventually finding an opportunity at a prop warehouse in a suburban film studio. The operator here, Mr. Li, is a prop master, stage designer, and the owner of this place—a model of success for your major.

However, while managing this place alone and even running a prop-making studio inside, he only offered you a job patrolling the factory at night.

Regardless, it is at least related to your major. Work hard until dawn."

Zhang Anzai gradually understood everything: "So that's it. This brother has become a student again, saving thirty years of detours."

Warehouse guard—in corporate terms, this position is called a BA, but to put it plainly, it's a security guard.

Why else would he have such a large ring of keys and a flashlight for patrol?

Familiar with the nasty habits of dungeon exploration, he didn't act rashly. Instead, he stood where he was and checked his phone. As expected, there was no signal, likely because he was in the suburbs.

This was standard dungeon procedure; even if there were a signal, they wouldn't let them connect to the internet normally.

He checked the few apps available. In his contacts, there was only one useful person: Mr. Li. Their chat history was saved, providing many details about the task.

For example, the lights were turned off at night to save electricity; the reason he didn't even have a baton was because there was nothing valuable here, and the patrol was mainly to guard against stray cats, dogs, snakes, and insects.

For instance, many students had held this part-time job before him, but Mr. Li complained that many college students treated it as a short-term or summer job and quit shortly after starting.

Another detail: the prop studio Mr. Li ran primarily made masks and full-body suits.

Additionally, there was a practical floor plan of the factory already saved to his photo album.

"It's so big..." Zhang Anzai took a look. As expected, the factory before him wasn't the whole thing.

After entering the main gate, on the left side, there was a restroom and several interconnected inner halls.

There was a costume prop hall for various garments, a warehouse for storing pigments and pastels, and a showroom where scenes were set up for production crews to view.

The right side was slightly smaller, housing several studios of varying sizes—some were Mr. Li's own, and others were rented out.

In total, it was several thousand square meters, about the size of a soccer field.

"So the question is, where will things go wrong?"