The system knew all about Su Shisan’s dungeon design, and seeing the players walk into the trap of their own accord left it speechless.
“Well… I suppose it’s understandable. They’ve never seen this kind of setup before.”
It tried, somewhat half-heartedly, to save face for the players, but its tone betrayed a hint of schadenfreude.
Su Shisan, however, was intrigued.
“What kind of dungeons do other Architects build?”
“There are all kinds,” the system replied with philosophical calm.
“As long as the result is player death, the game doesn’t restrict what type of dungeon an Architect can build. After all, so long as death is involved… humans will always be afraid.”
It wasn’t wrong. No matter the disguise, fear of death was a universal constant.
Su Shisan caught on quickly.
“Disaster genre? War genre?”
“All of the above.” The system confirmed her guess.
Now this was getting interesting.
Su Shisan specialized in horror, but she was genuinely curious—how would these other genres perform inside a horror survival game?
In the real world, disaster or war films don’t inspire fear. They trigger sadness or rage.
And as someone who only found joy in chaos, Su Shisan had little interest in those kinds of emotional responses.
But here, inside this game, things were different. Players had to live through the scenario themselves. The threat of death was real. Even a non-horror genre could easily spark genuine fear.
And was that fear… different from the fear created by horror?
That thought lit a spark of curiosity in her.
With a snap decision, she split the screen, opened the player marketplace, and labeled herself as an NPC for hire.
Then, she listed an hourly rate—5 points per hour—just under the current market price.
She’d figured out this feature while browsing the trade hub the day before. Many Architects tagged themselves for hire, making it easier for interested players to find them.
She added a note to her profile:
“Now accepting roles for non-horror dungeons only. DM if interested.”
Once everything was set, she turned her attention back to her current dungeon. There had already been a noticeable shift.
The players sitting in the living room looked… off. Their skin and lips had turned pale without them even realizing, their eyes dull and lifeless.
The pupils had shrunk dramatically—at least half their original size.
At a glance, they still looked human. But the longer you looked, the stronger that eerie wrongness became.
The man in the bedroom—the one having direct contact with the NPC—was in far worse condition. His Sanity had dropped to 20. Dangerously low.
Isolated from the others, he had no distractions, which only intensified the corruption. Exactly as Su Shisan had planned—a subtle trap embedded into the design.
His face, now unnervingly distorted, twisted into a smile.
“He’s smiling! Guys, come look—Huang Tian is actually smiling!”
The girl monitoring the tablet gasped, rubbed her eyes, then shrieked.
She was the second-most corrupted after Huang Tian himself. Her brain already fogged with confusion, it took her longer to realize what was wrong.
The others rushed over and crowded around the tablet.
Sure enough—Huang Tian was smiling.
And not the normal kind of smile.
Laughing out of nowhere while alone with an NPC?
A major red flag. Especially since, according to the last group’s report, they all died laughing.
The team leader jumped into action. He marched to the door, knocked, then immediately flung it open, yanking Huang Tian out and sending someone else in.
Huang Tian didn’t resist. He just smiled pleasantly, as if nothing was wrong.
“Huh? Why’d you pull me out?” he asked, confused.
“Why were you smiling?” the leader asked sharply, eyeing him with suspicion.
Huang Tian touched the corners of his mouth with a dazed expression.
“Was I… smiling?”
Then he smiled again, voluntarily this time.
“Well, I suppose I was. But it’s nothing! That little girl is really sweet. We got along great—she didn’t bother me at all.”
That statement alone was terrifying.
Everyone stiffened. As experienced players in the strategy team, they never grew attached to NPCs. And this NPC?
This was the one responsible for the last party wipe!
For him to say something like that?
He was clearly no longer thinking straight.
The leader’s face turned grim.
“Xiao Tao, tie him up. I’ll pull the guy inside out next. We need to regroup while the NPC is eating lunch. We cannot go on like this.”
Things had spiraled far faster than expected. If this kept up, the entire team of six would be wiped out before the day ended. They wouldn’t even last long enough to finish the mission.
Seeing the players finally taking action, Su Shisan perked up. They’d doomed themselves the moment they decided to monitor the NPC from a tablet, but she was curious to see what they would try now.
They left one player to eat with the NPC and huddled in the kitchen for an emergency meeting.
The team leader didn’t waste time:
“Huang Tian is out. He’s lost control faster than expected. A full clear is off the table. Let’s aim for a three-person clear instead. Anyone have discoveries or theories?”
“I… um…” The tablet girl hesitantly raised her hand.
“I’m feeling dizzy. Just like the newbies described. I think… I think the trap might be spreading through sight and sound.”
The room fell silent.
“I suspect visual and auditory exposure to the NPC can also spread the contamination,” she finished quietly.
They didn’t have the terminology for what was happening. All they could do was grope for explanations using everyday words.
But Su Shisan’s eyes lit up.
That phrase—spreading through sight and sound—sparked something. Inspiration flickered like a match in the dark.
These players didn’t understand the concept of “contamination.” They’d never heard of “rule-based horror.”
That was both a strength and a weakness.
On one hand, they were incredibly easy to trick and infect. No defenses. No countermeasures.
On the other, their ignorance meant they weren’t afraid—not in the way she needed. Not yet.
They were confused. Lost. But not terrified.
Fear of the unknown could only go so far, especially when death was already expected. If dying was the worst possible outcome, then the fear of the unknown lost most of its edge.
What she needed… was understanding.
She needed them to comprehend the world she’d built. To understand what contamination meant. What the consequences were.
Only then would they truly be afraid—afraid all the time, not just in their final moments.
And that was exactly the kind of fear she wanted to harvest.
Plus, according to a post she’d read yesterday, S-rank Architects were required to design dungeons that all shared a consistent worldview.
If she started building that worldview now—laying the groundwork—then moving from A-rank to S-rank would be much easier later.
But more than that…
If she could build a consistent world in this game—one with its own rules, its own logic—she could generate endless fear.
The thought made her heart pound.
While Su Shisan was lost in thought, the players in the kitchen kept strategizing.
The team leader looked grim. Everyone was showing symptoms now.
Before entering the dungeon, they’d all been in perfect condition. And now? Dizziness. Brain fog. Corruption.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
“We’re not getting a clear…” he finally said, voice heavy.
“Not at this rate. One down, five infected, and it’s not even afternoon yet.”
No one objected. They all knew it too.
But as a leader, he quickly regrouped.
“We’ve got two options. One: protect a single person and get them out. Focus all resources on ensuring at least one person clears the mission.”
“Two: forget clearing—use the rest of the time to explore the causes and effects of the contamination. Learn as much as we can before dying.”
As part of the strategy guild, they wouldn’t lose points. The guild would reimburse them. So although both options were risky, no one hesitated.
They voted, calm and experienced.
Outside the screen, Su Shisan raised an eyebrow.
“Huh. With this approach, they do have a decent shot at solving dungeons.”
D, E, and F-grade dungeons were small by design—limited space, limited complexity. And with the death rules in place, as long as there were enough players, they could piece together the puzzle.
“With numbers on their side, they can brute force the answer,” the system said lazily.
“But not all dungeons can be brute forced. They’ll abandon the tough ones.”
These big guilds weren’t in it for the thrill. They were here for the points. If a dungeon was too difficult, they’d cut their losses rather than waste resources.
Which, in a way, was good for the game. Simpler dungeons offered less energy anyway. Removing them made space for stronger ones.
Just like the game never ran out of players, it never ran out of Architects—or dungeons.
In the cold words of capitalism: If you won’t do it, someone else will.
Su Shisan understood this all too well.
If she wanted real power, if she wanted to control her fate…
She had to become irreplaceable.