As the chill of approaching death crept up his neck, Lin Mo heard a cold voice:
[Welcome to the Corridor of Terror, Participant No. 734.]
[Rule One: Every instance has a way out, but it is often hidden in the most terrifying place.]
[Rule Two: Trust no one, including your own memories.]
[Rule Three: Survive, or become part of the Corridor.]
From the moment he jolted upright in a morgue, he was forced into an endless cycle of terrifying instances:
The sound of someone combing their hair at exactly midnight, and a stranger’s face slowly coming into focus in the mirror;
A mountain village on a stormy night, where a procession of paper figures carrying a red coffin is always three meters behind him;
A hospital besieged by zombies, where his own face from ten years ago flashes across the security monitors...
Each instance is screening for “the worthy.” Points can be traded for skills, or even for one’s life. But when he finally glimpses the edge of the truth amid layer upon layer of lies, he discovers that the so-called “Corridor” may be nothing more than a glass tank in the palm of some being...
The “players” struggling to survive have always been specimens under observation.
And the eerie symbol etched into the walls of every instance is gradually piecing together the past he has forgotten as he delves deeper.
“So... I already died once.”
When trust becomes the deadliest poison and memory the sharpest blade, Lin Mo grips the half-burned candle in his hand and chooses the most dangerous path in the endless darkness:
“You want to make me a specimen? Then I’ll smash this glass tank first.”
