The Bizarre Prop Room

The beam of the ordinary civilian flashlight flickered, the surrounding environment reminding Zhang Anzai a bit of the Mountain Peddler supermarket from back in the day—it was just as labyrinthine, filled with countless shelves.

This place was even more complex; the shelves were taller than those back then, yet because the goods weren't stacked to the brim, one could see through the gaps to the other side.

And so, walking through the pitch-black factory, the surrounding environment appeared and disappeared through the gaps between the props on the shelves.

"The patrol route is to first walk along the left side of the factory, finish checking those prop halls, then loop through the interior of the factory to the studio area on the right."

Zhang Anzai recalled the route.

Although it was pitch black all around, he was still able to judge his position.

It was just that the prop warehouse at night was truly a bit strange. Even though he hadn't yet encountered the main source of the anomaly in this instance, walking here still made one feel somewhat uncomfortable.

Countless cluttered props were piled onto the shelves, creating a visual sense of chaos that made it difficult to confirm the situation at a glance.

Many red and white paper lanterns hung a few meters above his head, the light from his torch passing through them in a semi-translucent haze.

Specially antiqued bronze swords, or blades with blood-stain effects that glinted coldly, were densely packed onto the shelves nearby.

Zhang Anzai stood by this row of shelves, pondering, "Since the instance is bound to have issues, then... wouldn't it be better to grab a piece of equipment?"

The shelves before him were filled with swords of all sizes. Naturally, none of them were sharpened, and since they were mass-produced, the craftsmanship was likely even worse than a cheap sword bought online.

"But at least it's metal. Even if I just use it as an iron rod, it's better than being empty-handed..."

Instances generally had their quirks, but not all of them were impossible to clear head-on. After playing enough, one would always run into monsters with health bars.

With that, he clamped the flashlight in his mouth and rummaged through the shelves, causing the items to clatter and clang.

Zhang Anzai pulled out a long-tasseled Tai Chi sword that looked like something straight out of a last-century martial arts film.

Then... the blade swayed before his eyes like a pendulum.

"Could it at least have some weight? This wouldn't even be enough to whip an enemy to death." Zhang Anzai helplessly pinched the prop soft-sword with two fingers and tossed it back.

Subsequently, he picked up a sword that looked well-crafted and had a certain xianxia flair to it.

Then, for the first time in his life, he wished that young male actors these days would hit the gym more: "Plastic? This is even lighter than the last one."

That was the nature of props. While he couldn't wield a truly heavy blade anyway, the ones used for filming were indeed a bit too light.

Zhang Anzai helplessly rummaged through the pile of items again.

"Hiss..." Zhang Anzai subconsciously retracted his hand when he touched one of them.

Perhaps due to the Dexterous talent's boost to his manual dexterity, his finger wasn't cut.

It was a small, dull knife buried under a pile of other swords. It was longer than a palm, thin-bladed, recurved, and covered in rust.

But regardless of the wear, it was a real knife, and the edge still held a sliver of sharpness; if he hadn't been careful, it really would have sliced his finger.

"How did a real thing get mixed in here..." Zhang Anzai looked at the object with suspicion. The rust on it was reddish, and although he didn't smell blood, the blood-like rust still looked too real and highly suspicious.

Zhang Anzai scanned his surroundings. Because of the single light source, the items on the shelves left only irregular silhouettes in his eyes.

With just one glance, it was impossible to tell if the shelves were simply piled with props or if some strange, misshapen thing was crouching in the shadows.

The surroundings were deathly quiet, with not a sound to be heard. Perhaps because of this, Zhang Anzai felt his own breathing sound exceptionally loud.

Zhang Anzai had a premonition: "This knife is highly likely related to the instance boss. Could it be... equipment that was used until it broke in the past?"

He still remembered the name of this instance, Flaying Labyrinth. It was almost an explicit hint; this instance shouldn't have too many twists and turns, just the kind of bloody survival content.

However, regardless, he didn't touch the thing again and instead piled the other swords back.

That knife was too small and too dull—only capable of breaking skin—and it looked like it had been sharpened so many times it felt thin enough to snap easily.

Even though it was covered in rust, he couldn't exactly bet on the boss dying of tetanus.

He quickened his pace and, from another pile of swords, dug out a metal bronze prop sword weighing about a pound. It had no edge, but it was heavy enough, and the handle was wrapped in cord.

"Whew..." Zhang Anzai took a deep breath, then, holding the flashlight and gripping the sword, he continued to walk deeper inside.

"Click, click..." At the entrance of the dim inner hall, there was only the sound of keys. Zhang Anzai pushed the door open and was immediately startled.

In the inner hall, which was the size of two ordinary bedrooms, two rows of mannequin dummies were neatly arranged on both sides, dressed in various antique prop costumes.

Behind them were rows of clothing-store-style racks, with countless prop outfits hanging full.

Logically speaking, even if the environment was dim, entering such a place should only feel like browsing a clothing store, not something to be afraid of.

Who would have thought that just as he raised his flashlight and took two steps inside, the mass-produced antique clothes hanging on the surrounding racks suddenly began to flutter.

"?" Zhang Anzai swept the flashlight over, the bronze sword in his other hand nearly swinging out to strike.

But as he turned his head, a gust of night wind brushed across his face, as if an invisible hand had gently stroked him.

In the still-silent environment, every sound was amplified. Although it was just a light breeze, Zhang Anzai felt as if he had heard the wind howl.

Only then did he realize that the exhaust window of this inner hall was not closed.

Walking to the outer wall, Zhang Anzai reached up and pulled shut the long, narrow window that was slightly taller than a person.

"Click..." The air in the room suddenly became somewhat stuffy. The window, which hadn't been cleaned and was somewhat dirty, blocked out the faint moonlight.

Zhang Anzai turned around; in order to close the window, he had walked to the very back of the inner hall. As he turned, he realized that between him and the main door stood countless mannequin dummies.

He tightened his grip on the bronze sword subconsciously and walked quickly toward the exit of the inner hall.

Perhaps due to his nervous state and constricted pupils, he felt as if the surrounding mannequins were constantly closing in on him; by the time he reached the doorway, the mannequins on both sides were nearly brushing against his shoulders.

Their blank faces held nothing, and none of them seemed to have turned their heads to look at him, yet the sensation was bone-chilling.

Zhang Anzai did not foolishly turn his head back to confirm anything; he simply locked the door behind him.

He twisted his flashlight, the beam sweeping across the countless shelves in the factory floor behind him, but the space seemed unchanged.

He walked past the shelves and arrived at the entrance to the next inner hall.

Click, click, click... Turning the key, Zhang Anzai unlocked the heavy bolt.

The moment he pushed open the door, which felt even heavier than the previous one, Zhang Anzai was suddenly hit by a wave of cold air.

This area stores items that are difficult to preserve, like pastel ceramics; it should be temperature and humidity controlled, so it shouldn't be that stra—

Zhang Anzai was still trying to reassure himself when he saw a large pool of scarlet, viscous liquid flowing across the floor of the room.

Right there in the beam of his flashlight, it slowly trickled out from the doorway and reached his feet.