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

The sky outside the monitoring room window was pitch black.

There were no stars, no moon, nothing at all.

It was as black as a huge black cloth covering the sky, not letting in a single ray of light.

When the streetlights are on, you can still vaguely see the outline of the ground.

The cement road surface has several cracks, and withered grass grows in the cracks.

When the streetlights went out, nothing could be seen outside. All that could be reflected in the windowpane was Jones's own face—a pale, terrified face with dilated pupils.

The windows are relatively safe because they have thick iron bars with strong welds, making them look like they can't be opened easily.

But there were some marks on the railing, not wear and tear, not rust, but some kind of deep marks, as if something had scraped them hard.

Those marks were etched into the steel bars, some deep, some shallow, some long, some short. In some places, the paint had been scraped off, revealing the silvery-white metal underneath.

There were also some dark red bloodstains, not splattered, but smeared, as if something had grabbed the railing when its hand was covered in blood and then slowly and forcefully smeared it over.

Jones felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at the marks and bloodstains.

Those marks don't look like something a human could make.

Human fingernails cannot scrape steel bars, and human hands do not have that much strength.

Those were claw marks, claw marks from something he didn't recognize, something with sharp claws that didn't require going through a door.

Imagine Jones, an ordinary person, appearing in such a dark and terrifying place late at night, and before the surveillance footage has even been reviewed carefully, so many chilling and suspicious points have already been discovered.

Ropes, a stool, an open door, a dimly lit corridor, torn curtains, windows with claw marks and bloodstains, and something breathing in his ear that he didn't know what it was.

Everything was telling him that this place was unsafe, dangerous, and that he might die here.

At that moment, Jones had only one thing on his mind: close the door, find the rules, and check the surveillance footage.

But he didn't rush to do it. As a chosen one who had been tricked by the world of supernatural tales for years, Jones wouldn't act blindly.

He told himself: Keep everything in balance now, don't break the balance.

The door was open, nothing happened; the window was open, nothing happened; there was a hanging rope inside, nothing happened.

In other words, if things remain the same, I probably won't die unless I encounter danger.

Jones's rash move to close the door now would disrupt the balance, and if it triggered any rules or alerted anything, he would have nowhere to run.

Who knows, there might be something hiding in the monitoring room right now. As soon as he closes the door, that thing will pounce out from the shadows, and then he won't be able to escape.

Jones took a deep breath and, without closing the door, first checked his belongings.

He was wearing a blue uniform with a name tag pinned to his chest that read "Monitor".

It's very simple; there's no name, no number, just these three words.

Jones's finger lingered on the name tag for a moment before moving away.

This is his profession, the identity given to him by the world of ghost stories.

He had a bunch of keys hanging from his waist; the keys were of different sizes, lengths, and shapes.

Made of bronze, it was covered in green rust, and some of the key teeth were worn down. Jones even doubted whether this thing could still open locks.

There were ten keys in total. Jones counted them twice, and there were ten each time.

There are eight monitors in the monitoring room. He counted the screens; eight plus the door to the monitoring room, that's the ninth.

In other words, there is another key, the purpose of which is unknown.

He stared at the key for a long time, memorizing it.

Jones felt in his pocket and pulled out a few things. A black flashlight with a slightly worn plastic casing; the switch was on the side, and it lit up when pushed up.

He tried it, and it worked. The light wasn't strong, but it wasn't weak either; when it shone on the wall, you could see a halo around it.

A box of matches, in a red cardboard box, with more than half a box of matches still inside. The match heads were dark red, and some were damp and wouldn't light.

A small booklet with a blue cover. The words "Monitor's Code of Conduct" are printed on the cover, but the words have faded and are barely visible unless you look closely.

There was also a crumpled note.

The note was crumpled into a ball and stuffed deep inside the pocket; you couldn't find it unless you looked closely.

Jones unfolded it, laid it on the table, and smoothed it with his palm.

The note had a line of writing on it, the handwriting crooked and shaky, like a child's or someone writing with trembling hands: "If you really can't take it anymore, just hang yourself."

Jones stared at the line of text for several seconds, his mind blank, then cursed: Who the hell wrote that? Are they crazy?
This place is scary enough as it is, and then they write things like this.

Is it because they want him to die quickly enough, or because they want him to be under enough psychological pressure?

He guessed that the note was either written by one of his former monitors or a prank by some strange creature.

The former is alright, indicating that someone did manage to survive here for a while, and may even have safely 'left', which might also be Jones's wish.

The latter is more troublesome, indicating that this strange creature can write, has thoughts, and can plan, and is not the type to charge around recklessly.

He really wanted to tear up the note and throw it away, but after hesitating for a moment, he folded it back up and put it back in his pocket.

In the world of ghost stories, anything can be useful, even a note that says "Go to hell" might come in handy someday.

Jones noticed a detail: if there was a flashlight, why were there also matches?

Both are used for lighting, but they have different functions.

A flashlight beam is straight, illuminating only where it shines, but it cannot illuminate a wide area.

The light from a match is diffuse; it can illuminate the surroundings, but only lasts for a short while.

The appearance of these two things must have their own purpose.

Jones clipped the flashlight to his waist and stuffed the matches back into his pocket.

He opened the booklet.

The paper was yellowed, the edges were curled, some parts were soaked in water, and the writing was blurred.

He turned to the first page and saw the rules.

Survival Guidelines for Monitors: Please adhere to the following:
Rule 1: (Empty)

【Rule 2:】

【Rule 3:】

【Rule 4:】

That's right, this is the Jones format, because the paper behind the rules was torn off by someone.

Jones wanted to curse. Who the hell did this?! I just arrived, are they messing with me?!

Just as Jones was organizing his thoughts, a voice came from outside the door.

It wasn't footsteps, it was the sound of turning, like wheels rolling.

The "gurgling" sound of the rubber wheels rolling over the cement ground was like someone pushing a toy car, or like the toy car moving on its own.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet corridor, as if something was slowly and unhurriedly approaching from the other end. (End of Chapter)