I am a full-level celestial master, you let me enter the strange talk of rules?

[The new "Tales of Rules" event has begun. Each nation will select one chosen one to enter the game world of "Tales of Rules."]

If the chosen one dies, a strange tale will randomly descend upon one of the cities in the country.

If the country suffers ten consecutive defeats, ghost stories will spread throughout the nation.

[The world of ghost stories is now open, the current instance is 'Terrifying Surveillance'!]

[Current difficulty level for the supernatural tale: Nine stars.]

[In the world of ghost stories, you will play the role of a monitor. Please keep a clear head, find the rules within the instance, and use those rules to survive.]

The message disappeared shortly afterward. Jones's eyes were heavy, as if he had entered a world of ghost stories but had not yet fully woken up.

But an ominous sense of crisis instantly filled his body.

Just before he opened his eyes, Jones felt something whispering in his ear!

It wasn't just touching his ear, it was practically right next to his ear. The touch was real and warm, like a mouth pressed against his earlobe, ready to bite at any moment!
His breathing was very light, almost inaudible, but he could feel the breath on his skin, cool to the touch!
Jones suddenly opened his eyes and saw a dim, yellowish ceiling with a light bulb on it. The bulb was blackened, with black ends and a faint glow in the middle, but it seemed like it might go out at any moment.

He was covered in cold sweat; the back of his clothes was soaked and clung to his skin, feeling chilly.

He sat up abruptly, looked around, every movement filled with vigilance and caution, his breathing rapid, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest.

There was hardly anyone around, but everything was unfamiliar, so unfamiliar that it was terrifying!

An unfamiliar ceiling, unfamiliar walls, unfamiliar windows, unfamiliar doors, unfamiliar chairs, and unfamiliar tables!

Everything was telling him that he was not in a familiar place, that he did not belong here, and that he should not be here.

Jones's eyes darted around rapidly, scanning from left to right, from right to left, and from the floor to the ceiling.

He was calming his anxious and fearful state of mind, and also gathering information.

This is his experience of surviving in the world of ghost stories: it's okay to be afraid, but you can't let fear control you.

You can tremble, but you can't stop thinking.

Every piece of information he could gather sent chills down his spine.

This is a monitoring room, or at least it looks like it.

A ring of old surveillance monitors sat on the table in front of him, of various sizes and unevenly arranged, some upright and some horizontal, as if they had been placed haphazardly.

Some parts of the screen were lit up, while others were dark. The lit parts were blurry, as if viewed through a layer of fog, or as if something was blocking the lens in front of the screen.

But what really sent chills down Jones's spine wasn't this; he wasn't in the mood to examine the surveillance footage closely yet.

Because when he looked up, he saw something even more chilling.

Not far in front of Jones, a rope hung from the ceiling.

The rope was hemp, grayish-white, with one end tied to an iron hook on the ceiling and the other end tied to a loop with a knot.

The ring isn't big; it's just big enough to fit around a person's neck.

Below the rope was a toppled wooden stool, three legs on the ground and one leg dangling in the air, lying crookedly on the ground as if it had been kicked over.

Jones couldn't understand why there were ropes in the monitoring room, and why they were already hanging there.
The overturned stool was right below the rope, at that position, at that distance, at that height.

A picture involuntarily popped into Jones's mind: a person standing on a stool, putting their head through a rope loop, and then kicking the stool away.

The image was so vivid, so vivid, that he didn't want to think about it, but his mind wouldn't obey him.

It's like telling him: If you can't hold on any longer, you can end it all with this.

Jones swallowed hard and looked away from the ropes. He didn't dare look for too long, afraid that his mind would wander.

This is just one of them.

His gaze swept across the rest of the monitoring room.

The door was open, and the door to the monitoring room was not closed. Light leaked in from outside the main door, very faint, from the afterglow of a lamp in the corridor.

A breeze blew by, causing the door to sway slightly, and the hinges made a creaking sound.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet monitoring room—so clear it was frightening.

Jones felt a chill run down his spine, and a thought popped into his mind: Could it be that the feeling he just felt in my ear wasn't an illusion?

Has someone gone out? Who is that person? What do they look like? Are they an indigenous person? Or something eerie? Or some other being?
As he thought of this, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He subconsciously reached up and touched the back of his neck; it was cold and covered in sweat.

The lights in the monitoring room were dim and not very bright, making some areas appear dark.

Corners, under tables, behind chairs, and in the gaps of cabinets.

Those places where the light doesn't reach seem to be hiding something.

Every time he glanced at those shadows, he felt as if they were moving. They weren't actually moving; it was just an illusion created by his fear, but he couldn't control it.

Besides the monitor, two stools, there were some strange machines.

Some machines resembled mainframes, some resembled electrical distribution boxes, and some were completely unrecognizable, covered in rust and with faded labels on them, the words on which were no longer legible.

The machine emitted a buzzing sound, not a single sound, but a mixture of several sounds, some high, some low, some loud, some soft, like the breathing of something unfathomable, complex, and dizzying.

Besides that, what really gave Jones the creeps was the window.

The curtains were grayish-white, made of thick fabric, but they had been torn.

The bottom half of the curtain was missing, and the tear was uneven, as if it had been forcefully ripped off.

A thread dangled from the broken end, swaying gently in the wind.

Jones looked at the noose that had been used to hang himself, and then at the broken curtain.

Sure enough, the material, color, and thickness were the same.

The rope was made from material torn from the curtains and woven together.

A chilling thought popped into Jones's mind: Could it be that the previous monitor here couldn't stand the torture and hanged himself?
He used the curtains as a rope, kicked over the stool, and hung himself on the iron hook.

And then what? And then the body was disposed of?

Or is the body still somewhere here, but he just didn't see it?
A lot of intelligence can be seen from outside the window.

Jones quietly moved to the window, not walking over, but shuffling along the wall, each step so light that his shoes barely made a sound on the floor.

He dared not let anything outside the window see him, if there was anything outside the window.

The windows were welded shut with iron railings, with thick steel bars crisscrossing horizontally and vertically, sealing the windows completely.

Through the railing, he could see the ground outside.

In other words, this is the first floor.

There was a street lamp outside the window. The lamp post was black, with peeling paint revealing rusty iron underneath.

The lampshade was crooked, and the light bulb inside flickered, going off and on intermittently. When it was off, the surroundings were pitch black; when it was on, the light was dim and yellowish, illuminating only a small area under the light. (End of Chapter)