On the third day after the joint bounty notice was issued, the bulletin board outside the Adventurers' Guild in Blackedge Town stood empty.
The parchment stamped with three wax seals had been torn away, replaced by a newly posted notice that read: "The first investigation team has departed. Subsequent teams, please await further notice from the Guild."
Five adventuring parties, along with over a dozen lone wolves unwilling to join any group, had marched in a grand procession into the Dungeon's sixth floor through the newly discovered passage at the northeast corner of the ruins.
The journey had been uneventful so far.
Fluorescent moss clung to the damp rock walls, emitting a faint green glow. Occasionally, a few Burrowing Rats scurried past their feet, squealing in fright at the torchlight.
Scattered Carrion Demons crouched in crevices in the distance, gnawing on bones. Seeing such a large, well-armed group of adventurers, they couldn't even be bothered to lift their heads.
Rook, the leader of the Rook party at the front of the group, raised his lantern and squinted as he surveyed the surroundings.
"This is the sixth floor?"
The mage behind him adjusted the goggles on the bridge of his nose and muttered, "It's quieter than I imagined. Too quiet. Something feels off."
Rook didn't respond, but his grip on his sword hilt tightened.
After twenty years in this line of work, he knew one thing too well: the quieter a place was in the Dungeon, the deadlier it usually proved to be.
The party pressed onward. After about half an hour, a scout on the flank suddenly halted and reached out to touch the wall on the right.
"Captain, look at this."
Rook moved closer, narrowing his eyes.
The texture of the rock wall had changed. The rough surface of the natural stone had, at some point, transformed into a smooth, flawless expanse of pure white stone.
This whiteness came from the stone itself–uniform, fine-grained, cool and slick to the touch, utterly flawless.
"This isn't natural," the mage said, crouching down to examine the seams closely. "The cut is impossibly smooth. I can't see any tool marks."
Just then, a lone wolf adventurer let out a sharp gasp. "What the hell is that?"
Everyone followed his pointing finger.
In the corner, three palm-sized Pure White Mini Dolls were lined up in a row, silently carrying stone blocks larger than their own bodies, wobbling as they moved forward.
Their faces were flat, their heads smooth white spheres, their limbs short but surprisingly nimble; Their movements as they carried the stones were mechanical and steady.
"Interesting," the lone wolf swordsman said, crouching down and reaching out to grab one.
His fingers just brushed the head of the last little Doll. The tiny thing ducked, slipped through his grasp, and vanished into an extremely narrow crack in the wall with a whoosh.
"Fast little bugger," the swordsman muttered, withdrawing his hand awkwardly.
Rook noticed a Carrion Demon poking its head out of a nearby burrow. It sniffed at the two remaining Mini Dolls, then lost interest and retreated. Monsters paid no attention to things without the scent of flesh and blood.
Rook filed that detail away in his mind.
The party advanced further. The area of White Stone Wall grew larger and larger, eventually replacing the natural rock walls entirely, encasing the entire passage in a smooth White Corridor.
Then, they saw a door ahead.
A white archway was set into the far end of the corridor, its curves flowing and elegant, starkly out of place amidst the rugged Dungeon environment.
Above the archway lay nothing; no inscriptions, no carved symbols, only a smooth, unreal silver-white stone surface that gleamed coldly under the torchlight.
"This is the place."
Rook turned to the team. "Set up camp first, have something to eat, and rest for half an hour. Cedric, you go in first to scout the way."
Scout Cedric nodded, removed his excess gear, and took only a short knife and a coil of marking rope. He crouched low and slipped through the archway.
The others set up a makeshift camp outside the entrance, chewing on dry rations as they waited for news.
About ten minutes later, Cedric returned, his expression peculiar.
"What's inside?" Rook asked.
"The passage is straight. After about thirty meters, it splits into three branching paths." Cedric gestured as he spoke. "All three paths look exactly the same; the height, width, and material of the walls are identical, and even the patterns on the floor tiles show no difference."
"Which one did you choose?"
"The left one." Cedric's expression grew even stranger. "I walked straight for about five minutes, and then… I ended up back at the three-way junction."
Rook frowned. "Are you sure you didn't turn?"
"Captain, I've been a scout for twelve years," Cedric said earnestly. "I swear on my life, I was walking straight the whole time."
The camp fell silent for a few seconds.
Rook stood up, brushing the gravel dust from his clothes. "Everyone, move in. We'll take the right path."
The five members of Rook's team filed through the archway and stepped into the passage.
Footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, reflecting off the smooth walls with a strange reverberation that made it sound as though someone was following them.
The mage raised the light orb atop his Staff to illuminate the way ahead. The white walls reflected the light evenly, so bright it was almost blinding.
They chose the right passage.
After about ten minutes, the passage began to slope downward, eventually turning into a wide, smooth stone staircase.
Each step was paved with pure white stone, its edges sharp and angular, looking as if it had just been laid.
"Down we go." Rook signaled.
The team descended the stairs–one floor, two floors, three floors.
The mage counted the steps, estimating the depth in his mind.
About three floors, roughly ten meters down, a stone door appeared ahead.
Rook signaled for a halt and stepped forward himself, pressing his ear against the stone door to listen.
No sound.
He pushed the stone door open with both hands, and the sight behind it left everyone stunned.
Another set of downward-extending stone stairs.
Exactly the same width, the same material, the same lighting angle!
The mage hurried to the wall, stared at a particular spot for several seconds, then turned around, his voice tense.
"Captain, there's a seam on this wall. Its position is the same as the seam in the staircase we just descended, down to the last detail."
Rook's face turned ashen.
"Fall back. Return the way we came."
The team turned and ascended, their footsteps hurried and chaotic. They jogged up the three floors of stairs.
Rook pushed open the stone door behind them, only to find another set of downward-extending stone stairs.
All the same.
The youngest member of the team, an apprentice warrior who had just turned eighteen, trembled on his feet.
His teeth chattered, and he nearly dropped the sword in his hand.
"Stay calm."
Rook's voice was strained through gritted teeth. "Everyone, stop, sit down, and don't move. Let me think."
The mage took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down, then raised his Staff and branded a fist-sized Flame Mark onto the wall.
The orange-red glow of the flames stood out starkly against the pure white wall.
"Let's walk again. If this mark is still in the same place, it means the space is looping."
The team descended once more.
One floor, two floors.
"Captain!" Cedric, the scout at the front, suddenly crouched down, his voice trembling. "Look here."
Everyone lowered their gaze.
On the side of the third step, the orange-red Flame Mark was burning quietly.
It was no longer on the wall–it had moved to the step.
The apprentice warrior's legs gave way, and he slumped to the ground.
...
At the same moment Rook's squad was trapped in the Infinite Staircase, the lone wolf swordsman Dorr was striding swiftly down another branch of the Labyrinth.
Twenty-six-year-old Dorr was a bronze-ranked swordsman who believed few in his rank could rival his swordsmanship.
If those rookies from the Iron Thorn Squad could get out alive and even make a fortune, it'd be a waste of my life if I, Dorr, returned empty-handed.
His journey had been smooth so far, encountering no deadly traps; just a few flipping floor tiles, which he nimbly leaped over.
At the end of the corridor appeared a heavy door forged from black iron. Unlike the white stone doors commonly seen in the Labyrinth, this door had a rough surface, with five interlinked circles carved in the center of the panel.
Dorr examined it for a moment but found nothing unusual, then pushed the door open.
Behind it was a sealed hexagonal room. The ceiling was extremely high, embedded with a white ore that emitted intense light. In the center of the room stood a stone table, on which five stone slabs were neatly placed face-down.
Embedded in each of the six walls was a Bust Doll. They were much larger than the small Dolls in the corridors, with their upper bodies protruding from the walls, and their faceless chests carved with different eerie symbols.
After confirming there was no danger, Dorr walked to the stone table and flipped over the first slab.
One word slowly appeared on it: [Villager].
Before he could ponder further, the iron door behind him emitted a dull rumble.
A tall warrior wielding a broadsword walked in, his face filled with caution.
In the next moment, side doors opened one after another, guiding a cold-faced, slender archer, a stumbling female priest, and a short warrior covered in scars into the room through different passages.
Five people, five adventurers who had never met, stared at each other in confusion.
Suddenly, the Dolls on all six walls simultaneously lit up with crimson eyes, and blood-red, glaring text appeared on their surfaces:
"Five travelers, one wolf. Find the Werewolf to leave."
"Daytime Vote Execution, Nighttime Werewolf Hunt. If the Werewolf survives to the end, the Werewolf wins."
The female priest was the first to break the dead silence, her voice trembling as she tried to remain calm. "Everyone, don't panic. Let's analyze this calmly and find the Werewolf first..."
"Analyze my ass!"
The tall warrior slammed his palm on the stone table, causing the slabs to jump. "Who's the Werewolf? Step forward yourself!"
The short warrior sneered. "Shouting so loudly… are you feeling guilty? No Villager would be so eager to jump the gun like you."
"What did you say? Looking for a fight?"
The two instantly became hostile, their roars echoing back and forth in the sealed hexagonal room.
Dorr noticed that another line of small text had appeared on the stone table:
"The one who reveals the slate is immediately eliminated. First round daytime, voting begins."
The archer leaning against the corner watched coldly, his gaze scraping across each face like a blade.
The voting started. Each person walked to the stone table, pressed their hand into the groove, and silently named their target.
After the glowing ore flickered, the result appeared: three votes pointed to the tall warrior.
The tall warrior's face turned purple, veins bulging, as he suddenly drew his broadsword: "I'm not a Werewolf! You fools are wronging an innocent man!"
Before his words faded, the Bust Doll on the wall came to life. Six thick, snow-white arms shot out like lightning, firmly pinning his shoulders, arms, and back.
With a clang, the broadsword fell to the ground.
The text on the stone table updated: "Execution complete. Identity: Villager."
The floor beneath the tall warrior's feet slid open without warning. He didn't even have time to scream before plummeting straight down into the bottomless shaft.
A few seconds later, a bone-chilling thud echoed from the depths.
The remaining four faces instantly turned deathly pale.
Before they could catch their breath, the text on the stone table twisted again:
"Night falls, please close your eyes. The Werewolf begins the hunt."
The intense light from above extinguished in a blink, plunging everything into darkness.
In the pitch-black, suffocating silence, Dorr heard an extremely faint click of a mechanism, followed immediately by a short, choked scream from the archer's throat and the sound of something heavy scraping as it fell.
The lights abruptly flared back on.
The archer who had been leaning against the corner was gone.
In the spot where he had stood, only a not-yet-fully-closed black fissure and a few drops of glaringly bright blood remained.
"He was taken... the Werewolf killed him!" The female priestess broke down, covering her mouth, her legs giving way as she collapsed to the floor.
The short warrior's sword-hand trembled like a sieve, the tip tapping a frantic rhythm against the stone floor.
Dorr stared fixedly at the pool of blood, cold sweat soaking through his back.
The text on the stone table remained as cold as ever: "Daybreak. Last night, one person was hunted. Now begins the second round of voting."
Only three people remained in the room.
The short warrior's eyes were bloodshot, glaring at Dorr like a beast driven into a corner: "When the lights went out just now, you were the closest to the archer! You're the Werewolf!"
The female priestess huddled in the corner, trembling uncontrollably, her face streaked with tears, her terrified gaze darting between the two men.
Dorr's heart pounded wildly. He knew his slate read [Villager].
He couldn't die like this!
"I am not a Werewolf." Dorr took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his fear, and suddenly pointed a finger at the female priestess.
"It's her! She's been playing the victim from the start, lowering our guard. The scream last night was so close. If I were the Werewolf, why would I kill the silent archer instead of you, who posed a greater threat?"
The short warrior froze, following Dorr's finger to look at the woman on the ground.
"No... it wasn't me! I really am a Villager!" The female priestess shook her head in despair.
"Voting concluded."
The text on the table changed. Two votes, pointing to the female priestess.
The female priestess let out a heart-wrenching scream, struggling desperately to get up, but six merciless white arms had already pinned her firmly in place.
The stone table lit up with the final judgment:
"Execution complete. Identity: Villager."
"Insufficient players remain on the field. Game failed. Remaining players released."
The wall rumbled and split open, revealing a passage overflowing with white light.
Dorr and the short warrior stumbled inside, frantically sprinting toward the light like madmen. Behind them came the dull roar of mechanisms resetting, and the iron door slammed shut, sealing all the bloodshed and despair in the darkness.
The short warrior's legs gave way, and he collapsed in the passage, gasping for breath. He turned his head, staring at Dorr with an expression of extreme terror and strangeness.
"You… you're the Werewolf? You lied to me!"
Dorr said nothing, flipping over the stone slab he had been clutching in his hand and throwing it on the ground.
One word was carved on it: [Villager].
The short warrior froze, his gaze shifting back and forth between the slab and Dorr, his mind completely blank.
"Among the five of us, there was never a Werewolf," Dorr's voice trembled deeply. "The one killing at night… is this Labyrinth."
…
The Rook squad had been trapped on the endlessly looping staircase for nearly two hours.
The apprentice warrior had gone from trembling to numbness, leaning motionless against the wall, his gaze vacant as he stared at the steps beneath his feet.
The mage checked the Flame Mark he had left for the fourth time, confirming it had shifted positions again–this time appearing in a corner of the ceiling overhead.
The mage's voice was dry. "Spatial Magic leaves traces of magical energy fluctuations, but there are no traces here. It's unnaturally clean."
Rook sat on the steps with his eyes closed, leaning against the wall, one hand resting on his knee, his fingers tapping rhythmically.
He was thinking.
If it wasn't Spatial Magic, then the physical structure itself was changing. The walls, floors, and steps of this Labyrinth were all capable of moving and reconstructing.
We thought we were walking, but in reality, the Labyrinth was spinning us in circles.
So, the key to breaking the cycle wasn't which path to take, but finding flaws in the Labyrinth's structure itself–such as the characteristics of the walls, temperature, material, Mana content…
Test them one by one.
He opened his eyes.
"Everyone, press your hands against the wall."
"Captain?"
"Use your hands to feel the temperature. Touch every stone brick, find the ones that are different."
The team was puzzled but complied. The five of them spread out, feeling their way along the walls on either side of the staircase, brick by brick.
The mage was the first to notice something unusual.
"Here!" His hand pressed against a spot that looked no different from the other stone bricks. "This brick is warmer than the ones around it. Not by much, maybe two or three degrees, but it's noticeably different."
Rook quickly walked over and reached out to feel it.
It was true. In this bone-chilling ivory Labyrinth, this slightly warm stone brick stood out.
"Press it."
The mage pressed down hard on the brick. It sank inward, and the staircase beneath their feet let out a deafening roar as the entire section began to rotate.
The apprentice warrior screamed, clinging to the companion beside him. Everyone was thrown off balance by the intense centrifugal force.
The rotation lasted about five seconds before abruptly stopping. Before them appeared a brand-new horizontal passage.
The passage wasn't long. After walking about twenty steps, they reached the end, where a small room awaited. On the ground lay an unlocked wooden chest.
Rook cautiously lifted the lid.
Inside were three bottles of Intermediate Healing Potion. Amber liquid shimmered faintly within the glass vials, their quality excellent.
A fine steel battle axe, its blade sharp, the grip wrapped in anti-slip leather, exquisitely crafted.
Rook picked up a healing potion and held it up to the light, checking to make sure it hadn't been tampered with, then let out a long sigh of relief.
"Worth it," the mage wiped cold sweat from his forehead, forcing a smile. "Just these three potions alone are worth twenty gold coins, and the battle axe is worth at least fifteen."
The apprentice warrior crouched on the ground, face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling; it was impossible to tell whether he was crying or laughing.
Rook distributed the loot and was about to signal the team to leave when his peripheral vision caught something in the corner of the room.
A palm-sized doll sat on the floor, its short legs dangling over the edge of the stone slab, swinging back and forth, back and forth, looking just like a child fishing by a river.
Its face was flat, but Rook had the distinct feeling that its smooth, white head was turned toward him.
"Watching" them.
Rook slowly approached, and the doll's legs stopped swinging.
It stood up.
Then, it turned and disappeared through a very narrow crack.
Rook stared at the crack for a long time.
…There's a pair of eyes behind this labyrinth, watching us.
He didn't voice this thought.
By the end of the first day, the sun had already sunk behind the western ridge of Blackedge Town.
Of the five adventuring parties, three had successfully found the exit and returned to town with loot of varying sizes.
Healing potions, refined iron ingots, magic crystals, fine steel weapons; not exactly a fortune, but the rewards far exceeded those of ordinary tasks of the same level.
One party had gotten lost deep in the labyrinth, and the captain had wisely decided to retreat the way they came.
They hadn't gained anything, but all five members had made it out alive, which in dungeon exploration was already considered good luck.
And there was one party, the four-member "Black Thorn Squad," who never appeared at the exit.
Among the solo adventurers, Dorr and the short warrior had made it out alive.
The short warrior went straight to the tavern upon returning to town, downed three glasses of strong liquor in one go, then slumped over the table and didn't lift his head again.
Dorr stood at the tavern entrance. Someone came up to him, asking what it was like inside the labyrinth.
He didn't answer.
Someone patted his shoulder, and he shook it off as if scalded.
"Dorr, what's wrong with you? What happened in there?"
"No werewolves…"
"What?"
"There weren't any from the start…"
The whereabouts of the other three solo adventurers remained unknown.
In a corner of the Rusty Axe Tavern, Finn of the Iron Thorn Squad held a mug of ale, ears pricked as he listened to the chatter of the adventurers around him.
"Rook's squad was trapped inside for over two hours, and almost didn't make it out."
"The Black Thorn Squad still hasn't shown up. Probably not looking good."
"One of the solo adventurers came back crazy, keeps muttering something about no werewolves. No one can understand him."
Finn's hand trembled slightly as he held his mug. He remembered his own experience in the labyrinth last time.
The wooden sticks, the corridors slick with grease that sent people sprawling, the wall that sent Grang flying along with his shield, and the infuriating roulette wheel that gave Liya a "Thank You for Your Patronage."
At the time, he had thought those traps were downright insulting.
But now, hearing these reports from deep within the labyrinth, Finn suddenly realized… this might already be the greatest mercy the Labyrinth Master could offer.
The ale in his mug swayed a bit, reflecting his own face, an expression he couldn't quite place as relief or lingering fear.
...
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